


Arranged

by Brice_Gottlieb



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bertolt Hoover is Bertholdt Fubar, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gratuitous Use of Headcanon, M/M, Pre-Canon, The Homeland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brice_Gottlieb/pseuds/Brice_Gottlieb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertholdt had been placed alongside Reiner in his cradle and the two did not separate until the first crocus blossomed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Set Pre-Canon in Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner's Homeland. OCs include Reiner's parents (Garrard and Bathilda Braun) and Bertholdt's parents (Hobart and Adelaide Fubar) as well as two briefly mentioned children (Leoda Bauer and Elma Feld). Constructive comments are appreciated, seeing as this is my first posted work. Thanks!

In truth, it was all happy coincidence. Bertholdt Fubar had known Reiner Braun since the blonde boy could laugh. It had been an unforgiving winter made evident as early as the eve of November, and in an effort to conserve resources and limit casualties, the townspeople took to co-habituating in the large feast hall. Scrapping together what may last them the cold months ahead, they huddled for warmth and it stayed that way, until the dregs of December produced a hard labor and a child with eyes a shade of green so lush it put in mind the long awaited spring. Thinking of warmth, Bertholdt had been placed alongside Reiner in his cradle and the two did not separate until the first crocus blossomed.

The worst of it was over, and though the Fubars’ and the Brauns’ lived very separate functions of lives (as land owners and hunters, respectively), the boys found that community gatherings brought them together. Early year harvests had them playing at the riverside, supervised by the elder children. Reiner, nearing his first year, quickly learned that the algae-coated pebbles at the river shallows did not agree with his newfound walking ability and the resulting tumble gifted him the slight scar still apparent above his brow to this day. It was a story Betholdt would hear in his memorable childhood years. Reiner, in his infancy, had somehow found it fitting to gift Bertholdt with as many of the slimy rocks as his little fists could grab, and in his toddling managed to misstep.

The accident did not keep the two mothers apart for very long. Community was everything, and Bathilda Braun found herself working alongside Adelaide Fubar in more than the fields. Bathilda had assisted Adelaide the day of Bertholdt’s birth, and as first time mothers both, they held similar roles in the homeland. Reiner saw many of his firsts with Bertholdt in tow and it seemed only a short while until the two were talking, walking, and running at each other’s side.

Every year brought about a manageable winter, but every elder regaled Bertholdt of his fateful birth and his eyes that so promptly gave them hope for spring’s arrival. Bertholdt insisted on the elders telling of Reiner’s birth, but they would only mention the plentiful harvest that was always attributed to the birth of a new Braun, always with eyes the color of grain. In truth, Adelaide’s son had been born at a time when reserves and morale were in short supply, a time of hopelessness; Bathilda had given birth when it seemed the town had food in surplus and wanted for nothing, a time of bounty.

Youth was spent learning their respective family trade. Reiner was kept away long weeks in the woodlands, much to Bertholdt’s sorrow, learning to work a bow and spear in company of hunting hounds while familiarizing himself with his father’s work as a falconer. Bertholdt, however, had a much less adventurous place in life. While Reiner came back through the town with stags and hare, Bertholdt was keeping in acquaintance with the community, learning about the land with his father, and assisting his mother in her crafts.

Part of being a land owner, he found, not only meant claiming stretches of the homeland and clearing them for use at a profit, but also utilizing what he found. At his mother’s side, riversides became hunting grounds for freshwater pearls, fallen trees became any manner of furnishing, and dyes were crafted and put to use in the cloth she wove near day and night. Every spare moment free was a blessing, and Reiner didn’t mind leaving behind the woodland for talks through the fields with Bertholdt.

As with many outlying villages, ungoverned by The Walls, the families were close in bond and marriages were arranged quite carefully. Money had little standing as trading and personal favors were appreciated more than coin. Religion remained largely in celebrations of harvest, of good hunts, and the birth and death of seasons. Dates were overlooked by most, and to be truthful the only way Reiner remembered his birthdate at all was Bertholdt’s memory for numbers. So when Reiner came eight years of age, Bertholdt knew it was a special day indeed.

The latest decade had been sparse in births when compared to the past generation, but the Leonharts’ had made quite a stir about their daughter’s birth. Being prestigious hunters equal to the Brauns’, it could only mean more food for the community. The Berwicks’ were quick to call their debts due, though, and everyone subsequently knew that the girl Annie would be arranged to the son of the prominent farming family, Marcel, by the eve of the next year.

Matches were made quickly, and through the usual channels. Families in good favor with one another met with dowry and bridewealth, and matches would result in marriage in five years’ time. Except in the cases of debts, the children had some say-so in their future partners, but the entire affair had Bertholdt in a knot. Coming of age meant less time with Reiner, time that was so rare and precious to him already; he couldn’t imagine having to compete with a future wife for Reiner’s attentions…

For whatever reason, however, Garrard Braun saw fit to wait. He took his son out into the woodland more and more often, where little conversation of matches and arrangements were made, and over time Reiner came back with bigger game, an ode to his growing talents. The Fubars’ received an elegant present of rabbit furs crafted by Reiner to celebrate Bertholdt’s coming of age, just as the Brauns’ had been gifted an array of fine fletching feathers gathered by Bertholdt five months earlier.

 

In truth, it was all a happy coincidence.

Reiner sat by the hearth made roaring in the midst of winter as he picked carefully through the beaded pouch where Bertholdt’s gifted fletching feathers were kept, arranging them about shafts of wood. Sitting in his company, Bathilda was casual to notice his keen hand in the family trade, how her son’s hand did not waver over the gentle placement of feathers. He’d make a wonderful hunter, she knew.

“Have you given any thought to it, Reiner?” she asked over the crackling of wood in the fire. At first, he did not respond, instead tying down the fletching with a fine strand.

“I don’t _like_ Leoda,” replied Reiner, after setting his new craft aside and picking up another, “she’s rude to the elders and she smells like meat broth. Leoda doesn’t even like to climb trees; I don’t think I could marry someone who doesn’t like to climb.”

Bathilda had to smother a smile. It was true, though; the whole Bauer family carried a heavy stench of the meat broth they made of their sheep.

“Something as small as climbing trees is the means to your heart?” she goaded, “You must be an easy man to win over if it’s that simple.”

“I admire those who enjoy a bit of adventure,” said Reiner, sure of his words.

“Like who? Elma Feld? I see you talking to her often.”

“She’s…just a friend. Besides, she’s already arranged.”

The fire popped loudly, casting a small array of embers over the flagstone hearth. Thinking quick, Reiner drew his prized feathers away and smacked his palm flat against the glowing specks, stamping them out. Bathilda sighed softly under the sound. There were so few left to choose from, and arranging younger children with older was always a difficult affair.

Garrard’s heavy footsteps came from down the entrance hall and Reiner looked up quickly, excitement clear on his face. It was clear Reiner would be the spitting image of his father when he grew, just as broad of chest and tall of stature. The only thing separating them were the scars of hunts long past littered over Garrard’s body, scars that would no doubt be etched in Reiner over time.

“What’s this I’m hearing of arrangement?” he called lightly, setting an armload of evenly cut branches into the open chest by the hearth, snow flaking off his shoulders and melting against the stone. Reiner’s smile diminished. He held up his arrow shafts for his father’s examination, seeming very out of place in Garrard’s large hands. The fletching feathers were stroked softly, adjusted just slightly before he handed them back with a nod of approval.

“You should choose wisely, Reiner,” he murmured gruffly, sitting against the flagstone at his son’s side. “You’ll have to wait far longer than others if you don’t choose within the year. But be too hasty, and you’ll be unhappy.” Bathilda grimaced inwardly at the thought, but was caught back into the conversation by Garrard’s hand over her own. “I chose to wait, and I found your mother. But I remember watching the others of my years marrying, choosing, passing me by and having children before I could. It’s a tiring thing to watch.”

Reiner was stoic through his father’s speech, thoughtful. When it seemed he had nothing to say, Garrard took the effort to stand, smiling at Bathilda and patting her hand. His heavy boots moved as if to leave, and Reiner could feel his heart begin to pound in panic. He had to choose. He’d have to choose…

Garrard was halfway through the house before Reiner leapt to his feet, arrow shafts scattering noisily across the stone but the feather pouch kept firmly in his hands, held to his chest. Bathilda had no time to reprimand him before Reiner was calling out after his father.

“I choose Bertholdt!”

Garrard did not react immediately. The thought was on his face, though, examining the possibility.

“Hobart’s boy?” he asked frankly, to which Reiner nodded almost too quickly. “He’s of age…and a land owner,” Garrard muttered, bringing his hand to his bearded chin, “There’d be plenty of space for hunt…private hunts, even, no interfering from the Leonharts’ girl….”

Reiner looked hopeful, glancing to his mother who was still too bewildered at Reiner’s sudden proposal to say much. He’d have to lay this on thick if he was to get his way. Kneeling to her side and looking every part the obedient child, Reiner smiled up at her. “Think of it, mother, Adelaide and you could spend all the time you’d want together. They could benefit from us and our furs in her crafts, we could make more profit together than apart, and we gain new hunting grounds through Bertholdt’s trade. It can only ensure our future.”

“ _That’s_ the trouble I see, Reiner,” she replied softly, touching his cheek as if to soften the blow of her words. “There is no future with him; you’re both only sons. There would be no children to _make_ a future.”

“Then we’ll bring up some,” he assured hurriedly, hands going to her knee imploringly, “We’ll bring up as many as we can. I can teach our trade, we _will_ have a future.”

But for all his pleading, Bathilda seemed at war with herself. At a loss, she turned in her seat to Garrard. He’d remained silent, but watchful to the scene. Reiner turned his eyes on his father as well, uttering soft. “Please…”

Between the family lay a large pregnant pause, Garrard picking over his options. The Fubars’ were good people, honest. Hobart had been Bathilda’s friend in their youth and was known for being fair. Also, for being stuck in his ways and quite a voice of stubborn reason, but he was good at his trade and knew what he spoke of. The thought of the Braun line legitimately ending scared Garrard, yes, but it was never too late for another child...

“If Hobart is to accept your bridewealth,” Garrard said slowly, “you will be matched.”

Flushed with relief, Reiner beamed. His hands shook on his Bathilda’s knee, but he smiled up at her none the less. Her troubled expression was enough to look away quickly, and as he gathered his arrows in trembling hands, all Reiner could think of was visiting Bertholdt soon.


	2. Bridewealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt stood there, still flushed every time Reiner looked back, fighting every intention to follow those boot prints in the snow....

Bertholdt’s work on the land officially took pause as soon as the snows reached their pinnacle, and most of the winter months were spent at Adelaide’s side on the loom. As it was, boring holes through the shells of fingernail clams wasn’t the most thrilling task he’d had to date, but the Berwicks’ were expecting a second child come spring. Adelaide had quickly been commissioned for a birth gown in indigo woad, and these tiny shells were to line the hem.

He’d just about had it; the small hand drill was causing his fingers to cramp and each shell took forever, supposing he didn’t crack it in half completely. Bertholdt had tossed the drill aside in frustration when the door knocked, Adelaide looking up from her loom.

“Must be Marcel,” he mumbled in explanation, voice tinted with rare aggravation. None the less, Bertholdt was glad for the chance to walk away from his chore. He crossed the floorboards quickly, very nearly upsetting the sack of shells in his haste and braced for the outside chill before opening the door.

It wasn’t Marcel, however. Reiner stood unusually straight, cheeks flushed in the cold but smiling as if he were fit to burst with excitement. Assuming Reiner must have found something worth seeing, Bertholdt’s hopes deflated.

“I’m not done with my chores,” he said softly, “I can’t come out yet.” Reiner’s grin only grew, further confusing the younger boy. “I’m not here for that,” Reiner announced, each outward breath a puff of steam. “I need to speak with your father. Let me in?”

Stepping aside, Bertholdt hurried to close the door behind Reiner and stepped away as the young hunter shook the snow from his hair. “You should have brought a cloak,” he chided, cupping Reiner’s cheeks in his palms to warm him. “No way,” Reiner laughed in retort, “I’ve been waiting all night to be here! I even rushed chores; there’s no way I was stopping for a stupid cloak.”

Bertholdt’s knuckles rapped sharply against Reiner’s scalp in punishment, but the attempt at scolding had no real power behind it and the blonde only laughed again. Adelaide watched them from her loom with caring eyes.

“Did your father send you?” she inquired, her voice just as gentle as Bertholdt’s.

“No, ma’am,” said Reiner, taking Bertholdt’s hands from his cheeks. The younger boy didn’t listen as his mother and friend spoke, instead noticing how Reiner’s face was still quite pink. Not from cold, then, as he’d assumed, but from apparently a very vigorous washing. In fact, Reiner was quite formal all around, from posture to clothing. It was rather unlike Reiner, who always ran about the wood in grass stained tunics like all the other children, complaining every time he had to wear the white linen festival shirt he had on now. Whatever conspired during his observations, Bertholdt was soon drawn to attention by his mother’s orders to fetch his father.

Unlike most homes, the Fubars’ had a second floor to their house, making up in height what it lacked in width. Visitors were often intimidated by the staircase and the creaking boards above their heads, but Bertholdt trusted his father’s work and took the steps by two more often than not. Hobart was known for hiding away up there with his hand drawn maps, looking over lands he’d already laid claim to and sketches of structures he could build upon them. As so, Bertholdt found him peering down at a map, no doubt plotting for work to be lined up come springtime.

“Reiner’s here for you,” Bertholdt murmured, stepping close to see his father’s work. It seemed he had plans to clear the rocky outcropping over the next hill…

Hobart sighed softly, looking over his work with an air of defeat. Bertholdt could sympathize; it was never an easy job to tailor the land, and one could only guess the difficulty until the snows melt. One long winter or a job left half-finished could set him at odds with those seeking to buy from him. There was a fleeting smile to set Bertholdt at ease before the towering man stood, following at his son’s heel to the lower floor.

Reiner had been watching his mother at her loom, it seemed, the two side to side as he watched her spindly fingers wind thread after thread in their proper place, the gentle wash of dye work mottling into wave-like patterns. It only took Hobart’s throat clearing to get Reiner at that awkwardly formal disposition once more.

Adelaide nearly chuckled to herself, but she was just as curious as Bertholdt was, quietly abandoning her loom to watch Reiner stiffly take Hobart by the hand. Her son nearly rushed to her side, preferring her comforts over a close watch of the unfamiliarity. Adelaide brushed a hand through his hair and kept him close.

“Did your father send you, Reiner?” Hobart questioned, but the boy once again denied it.

“I’m here of my own accord, with his blessing.”

Taken aback, confusion crossed Hobart’s face openly. His hands met and clasped behind his back, as he did when preparing for unusual requests. “Well, then…what might you have in mind?” he queried. Reiner seemed to puff himself up in preparation to answer, the effect comical enough to bring a slight smile to the corners of Hobart’s mouth. He was no fool. He knew exactly what was on the boy’s mind…

“I’m here,” Reiner began on shaky voice, “to request Bertholdt of you in exchange for my bridewealth.”

There was a moment of hush. Adelaide took a soft gasp of excite, Bertholdt could hardly hear over the ringing repeat of Reiner’s words through his mind, and Hobart’s grin was comparable to a snake. “I thought as much,” he replied softly. A hand came unclasped from behind Hobart’s back, but Reiner already fumbling about his pockets to fetch the paper he’d written that morning. Bertholdt could barely breathe.

“You’ve spoken this over with your father, yes?” Hobart asked. Reiner nodded quickly as Bertholdt began to sweat, and Adelaide pressed the hem of her apron to his cheek while her husband read off the bridewealth.

“In the event of marriage, so-on-and-so-forth…entrusted with the following: a sum of ninety skins and furs, one prized hound, and a portion of hunted game each passing year to keep the family fed until the end of their days….”

Hobart kept on with the list, naming off material possessions as Bertholdt’s heart began to lift. He wouldn’t have to compete with Reiner’s bride-to-be anymore. No, the bride-to-be was now him, if his parents approved of the Brauns’ offer. He would have all the time in the world with him; morning, noon, and night in a house all their own. Bertholdt barely heard news about bringing up children. Children, he thought with a silent smile, children with Reiner…

“Bertholdt?”

Adelaide was looking at him in confusion, but Bertholdt was quick to give his attention. “Your father asked what you think about this. Do you want to be matched with Reiner?”

“It…” Bertholdt began, getting choked up and having to swallow thickly before answering again. “It is a generous offer.”

“Beyond that, dear,” she murmured gently, brushing his hair back toward his ears. Reiner was staring, but Bertholdt had a feeling he knew the answer long before he’d knocked on their door. “I want to be married with Reiner,” he said, nearly too quiet to be heard, but his mother smiled and his father nodded his approval. Nothing matched Reiner’s grin, though, not in Bertholdt’s eyes.

Mentions of having to write up Bertholdt’s own brideweath came to light, but Hobart assured that he’d take care of the matter and insisted Reiner take a gift to Garrard on his behalf. Bertholdt couldn’t stop the excitement bumbling through him, so as Reiner went to leave with parcel in hand, Bertholdt made sure to open the door for him and see him out.

The winds brushed against their cheeks like cats and snow was still falling in large white clumps, but Bertholdt was quickly fastening a cloak about Reiner to shield him on his walk home. “We’ll be married soon,” Reiner announced happily, as if Bertholdt hadn’t been there himself. “Maybe then you can stop forgetting your cloaks,” teased Bertholdt, reaching upward to rap Reiner’s head in remembrance of his scolding.

Quick to act, Reiner moved forward, leaving a light kiss to Bertholdt’s cheek and stealing the grin from his face. Shock took its place instantly, Bertholdt covering the skin with both hands as he gawped at Reiner. “To remember this by,” he explained. A pinkness flooded Bertholdt’s face that had little to do with the cold before Reiner took his leave back through the snow.

Bertholdt stood there, still flushed every time Reiner looked back, fighting every intention to follow those boot prints in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bridewealth (more commonly known by the unflattering title of 'bride price') is pretty much the opposite of a dowry. Instead of the bride giving to the groom's parents and to the household, the groom gives to the bride's parents. Since Reiner and Bertholdt are both boys, they both have bridewealth to offer. 
> 
> Any questions, comments, constructive criticism? I hope I'm doing enough worldbuilding...


	3. Of Vixen and Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me about it.”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> Reiner stood, dropping the finished vine atop Bertholdt’s head, a few crocus petals coming loose and drifting to the younger boy’s lap. “Tell me about when we get married..."

Spring came with violently colorful crocuses and a sun bright enough to melt the winter’s snow within a week. The appearance of the new season brought enough work to keep Reiner from seeing Bertholdt for weeks, and the few spare times they passed each other in the streets, Reiner couldn’t help but notice his battered hands and pinched expression. There was a whole field of stone to be cleared by the start of planting and by Bertholdt’s condition, Reiner seemed to have an easier job in the long run.

Sometime past the planting season and well into mid-spring, Bertholdt arrived at Reiner’s doorstep and implored Garrard to give Reiner the afternoon hours free to walk the fields with him, and in the interest of their match, Garrard allowed it. It had taken them a while to reach the new field at a comfortable pace, but it was now free of stones and Bertholdt was eager to show off the fruits of his labor. It was a comfortable stretch of land with a trickle of a creek flowing down from a stony outcropping in the hillside, in view of the wide private woodland gifted to the Brauns’ through Bertholdt’s bridewealth.

“Father says this will be ours, when we’re married,” Bertholdt chimed suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that befell them. Reiner paused in the picking of crocuses to take a look around. “It’ll be perfect,” Bertholdt claimed in attempts to reassure him, “We’ll be so close to the woods; you wouldn’t have to go far at all to hunt.”

“You’re still so excited to marry me?” Reiner chuckled, tucking the violet blooms through the wild potato vine he’d snagged not far off. “I never stopped,” he murmured in return, reaching up to fiddle with his hair and brush out any grasses. There were none, but Reiner didn’t comment. He knew Bertholdt did so to hide his blush.

“Tell me about it.”

“What?”

Reiner stood, dropping the finished vine atop Bertholdt’s head, a few crocus petals coming loose and drifting to the younger boy’s lap. “Tell me about when we get married,” Reiner clarified in a soft voice, taking Bertholdt by the hand and helping him up with intent to walk the field again. Using his free hand to steady the flower crown, Bertholdt followed obediently, a step behind Reiner as the story was told.

“We’d have a large house,” he began, “that we’d both build. And I’d carve the beams like father does.”

“What would you carve?”

“Crocuses,” Bertholdt declared, touching the petals of his own crown as he spoke, “and stag horns. And quail, and open clams with pearls. We’d have many rooms and a wide hearth. I’ll carve the mantle to match the beams.” He paused, a flush coming over the high of his cheeks. “I think six would be just right…”

Reiner stopped in his path and looked back with a confused look to his face. “Six what?” he inquired, but Bertholdt could only laugh as he forged past him. He caught up quickly seeing as their hands were still joined, but Bertholdt refused to meet his eye. “What, six what?” Reiner asked again, but the only answer he got was more of Bertholdt’s precious laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time around, but we'll be seeing more of Marcel and Annie soon. Kudos if you get the Disney reference.


	4. Casualties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The farmhand was quick to drop his infantile weaponry in surrender and Bertholdt thought, not for the first time, that if either of their classes were to take the fall, he’d rather it be his own...

Although Bertoldt and Reiner were known by the association of their birth, early friendship, and match, it was becoming much more common to find Reiner at Marcel Berwick’s side than with their brides-to-be. Though it dismayed him, Bertholdt could only attribute it to their social classes. Fieldhands and Hunters were much closer in traditions and walks of life than Land Owners and Hunters, and there was little to do outside of their match that could change that. Eventually, Bertholdt knew that one of their castes would have to waver and crumble under the dominant role.

He watched Marcel from his father’s side, cringing visibly when the crooked stick wielded by the farm boy came down on Reiner’s knuckles. Playing battle, as they always did, was one of the many things Reiner and his ilk enjoyed. Bertholdt, on the other hand, did not. Reiner uttered a soft curse, taking his reddened hand from the hilt of his branch-turned-blade and suckling on the scrape he’d received. Marcel did not have long to gloat in his glory, though, as Reiner attacked twofold with movement made sure by his training. The farmhand was quick to drop his infantile weaponry in surrender and Bertholdt thought, not for the first time, that if either of their classes were to take the fall, he’d rather it be his own.

Hobart’s hand drew Bertholdt’s attentions with a touch of his shoulder. Right; he was supposed to be observing his father through the market. Hefting the wood crate in his arms, Bertholdt turned away from the mock battle and trained his eyes on the chard and sugar beets Hobart was intent on.

Subtle changes had taken root in the young land owner’s life. Hobart took him to the fields to clear the grounds and dam waters, to build wells and chop unruly saplings as he always had, but his mother was taking him under her wing on the loom more often than allowing him to dye or bore holes in ornamentation.

He’d especially taken notice after she’d mentioned children and ‘tending a young family in bloom’, as she’d put it. It seemed she foresaw the Hunter winning out as much as Bertholdt did. It was at her persistence that he witnessed the comings and goings of the market. Whether it was to make acquaintance with the vendors or observe his father’s haggling, Bertholdt wasn’t sure. These were wifely teachings, things he’d seen Annie Leonhart learning soon after her match. If the pattern was to follow, there’d be more.

He hoped with everything he was that Adelaide wouldn’t ask him to shadow the midwives.

Reiner’s faux duel was becoming a tempting distraction as it rose in volume. If the grunts and growls were any indication, Marcel was playing dirty and riling Reiner’s frustrations. Bertholdt experienced a fleeting urge to calm him. But he was loyal to his father, as children his age should be, and running off to play while leaving Hobart with the crate would weigh on his conscious more than he felt comfortable with. Besides, Bertholdt internally scolded, he’s supposed to be learning something from this.

 

The next thing Berthold saw was the footpath of the market and tiny garnet-like beads of liquid being absorbed into the parched dirt trail. His whole world had shifted, that much he realized. Almost as if he were lying down. When did he lie down...?

Far too much yelling went on around him, but all Berthold could think was to keep still. It was proving a hard task; his head didn’t seem to stop shaking of its own accord, the whole of the scene around him becoming a tilted whorl of color and noise and vague motion.

A force came down over the crown of his head like a thick pillow and kept a firm pressure. Bertholdt tried shaking it off, but he felt far too weak. Gold eyes watered with worry briefly within his sight. Only after they were gone and the yelling reached crescendo did Bertholdt realize it had been Reiner. He attempted to reach out and was met with various sensations; warmth clasped around his fingers, a stinging, then an odd wetness before being weighted and dragged back down to Bertholdt’s side.

Everything quivered under him for the longest time. Bertholdt couldn’t remember feeling so sick in his lifetime and years in the future would find only one situation comparable to the gut wrenching nausea he was now subject to. Something liquid slowly encroached his vision, forcing Bertholdt’s eyes to shut lest they be covered too and under this darkness, he found sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate all the Kudos this is getting! If there's ever a situation or prompt you want done, I'll do my best to work it in. Comments are always appreciated. Next chapter will explain from Reiner's POV and Annie will take a major role.


	5. Losing Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t marry them if they’re dead.”

Reiner felt a heat rise in his face as Bertholdt looked his way. He was obviously following his father on some kind of task and the disappointment was evident in the little Land Owner’s face. Marcel struck a mock fighter’s stance from the corner of Reiner’s sight, but Bertholdt’s lush eyes were turning on him now, catching the trail of red across his cheeks as if it were infectious.

Snapped from his thought by Marcel’s stick against the high of his knuckles, Reiner hissed in pain. He put the scrape to his lips once he caught the barest hint of welling blood. Of all the things he could stomach and stand, blood remained a sight to squirm to.

It didn’t take much thought to give Marcel a returning barrage of his own. Caught somewhere between inexperience and rising panic, the farmboy actually defended himself well until his untimely surrender.

“You sure stare at him a lot,” Marcel said as he retrieved his stick. Reiner wiped his spit-slick knuckles against his tunic, looking up to catch Bertholdt’s eye, but Hobart must have reprimanded him. The boy’s back was turned, idly watching the produce fall into the small crate he carried. Sugar beets, Reiner noticed from afar. Bertholdt loved sugar beets.

Marcel’s grubby hand waved in front of Reiner’s face. “Hello?” he called teasingly, “Are you gonna actually take up arms or are you planning your spring wedding already?” He laughed at his own jibe, but Reiner met it with a smile. Their weapons rose to clash, the jarring crack of dry wood doing little to divert Reiner’s steady advance. It was all in play, but Reiner hated losing almost as much as he hated blood.

Farm work may have taught Marcel to wield a sickle, but the birch branch was hardly a curved blade and he was quick to notice the mistake. Reiner had long since learned how to strike with blade, pike, spear, and stake. This was little more than non-lethal hunting practice. The hunter had to smirk at his friend’s clumsy footwork, backing little by little. Reiner glanced apart from the easy fight to catch sight of Bertholdt, only a few paces away. Marcel was hasty to take advantage. He swung a hard horizontal over cut, and in Reiner’s distraction, managed to knock the branch from the hunter’s hand.

 

The sight of Bertholdt falling would be engrained in Reiner’s mind forever.

 

Hobart was over Bertholdt before Reiner knew how to breathe again. Everyone in sight, a dozen people or more, were rushing to the Fubars’ aid. The resulting clamor fell heavy, but Reiner could hear none of it. His feet carried him, stumbling, forward through the crowd and pushed at people where necessary. Someone had handed Hobart a bundle of cloth and it was being pressed to the topmost of Bertholdt’s head. He was dazed, that much was plain to see. But then again, so were the droplets of blood over the ground, the trickle falling past his ear, the ever-blooming red seeping into the previously white cloth…

He tried hard not to cast a glance at his birch stick. Hobart was fumbling for a hold on Bertholdt, who was positively trembling. Reiner had never seen an adult so scared before, so desperate that when he knelt by Bertholdt’s side, it was Hobart who stared at him pleadingly. Tears threatened to slip over Reiner’s cheeks. It’d been his fault…

“I’m sorry!”

Marcel was trying to pass the crowd, trying to move the people the same way Reiner had.

“I’m sorr--!”

 

When had he stood? When had he turned from Bertholdt’s side? All Reiner could feel were the sharp pains in his fingers and the hands coming down to restrain him. Marcel, sprawled across the dirt in tears, was too shocked to properly cry. When had Reiner got it in mind to punch his friend? When had playing this stupid battle ever been fun?

Calls went out for Bertholdt’s condition as a midwife joined Hobart’s side, others were sent to find Garrard Braun and Lanzo Berwick, and many scolded Reiner out of turn. “He’s bleeding so much,” Hobart whimpered as the midwife took over in attempts to stem the tide. There was a weak fumbling at the hem of Reiner’s tunic, cause enough for him to turn round.

Bertholdt, with whatever strength he had, was reaching for Reiner. The poor child didn’t even have his vision in focus and yet he reached out for him, as if he’d done nothing but good. Hands were still upon him with the judgmental gazes to match, but the young hunter clasped the fingers of Bertholdt’s hand in his. Reiner pulled away quickly, however, when he felt the unmistakable drip of blood. A cut ran along the crease of Bertholdt’s palm. The crate must have caught his hand in the fall, Reiner thought sadly.

The midwife pulled at Bertholdt’s sleeve until his arm rested by the boy’s side. Reiner opened his mouth to ask if he’d be okay, but before a single word could come out he found himself lifted. Garrard had him by the back of the tunic, hauling him away. Reiner went limp in defeat as he passed by Marcel, still holding his rapidly swelling cheek. Garrard didn’t say a word as he left the scene, letting his son’s boots drag the ground when Reiner refused to walk on his own.

Bathilda was silent by the hearth as Garrard swept into the house, a silent roiling storm cloud. Reiner made a conscious effort not to catch her eye. When it came time to dish out punishments, it was always his mother who whipped him hardest and gave the vilest of chores. Pleading was no use at this point.

Garrard was hardly gentle about dropping Reiner on his bed. The boy settled on the pallet as heavily as the stones that he felt in his belly, but nothing could have filled him with more dread than Garrard’s parting words. He pulled the door partially shut, staring at Reiner hard before growling lowly.

“You can’t marry them if they’re dead.”

Reiner couldn’t even witness his father’s leave, because at that moment, every drop of blood Bertholdt had spilled ended up as tears in Reiner’s eyes.


	6. Indenture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobart’s desk lay in full display, the maps pushed aside for bandaging and a length of catgut that Reiner had no wish to look at any longer than it took to identify it...

Midwives frequently ducked into the Fubar house for weeks afterward. Reiner and Marcel both had been forbidden to go near the place, and though Reiner remained bitter, they’d made peace between each other. It had, in all, been an accident. Talk about town was frequently unreliable, though, and rumors spun everywhere about what had happened and the severity of the result. Reiner found himself constantly wondering if what he heard had any validity. Some whispered that Bertholdt was in a deep coma, others claimed he was dead entirely. It wasn’t until one of the midwives themselves came up to Garrard and murmured the words ‘only concussed’ that Reiner found any sort of peace.

He’d been put to hard labor, not only for his own household, but for the Berwicks’ and Hobart Fubar as well. Mornings were spent reaping winter wheat at Marcel’s side (whose cheek had since yellowed into a bruise) until he went into the woodland mid-afternoon to chop enough wood for the three houses and hunt game. Garrard insisted Adelaide use him to clean her household before nightfall, but more often than not the woman let Reiner rest and tell him of Bertholdt’s condition in her kind voice.

Marcel tried many times to take some of the blame. He often tagged along to help in Reiner’s workload, but Garrard sent him scrambling home the second he saw them in company. Reiner didn’t know the first thing about being concussed, but it must have taken quite a while to get over because he’d lost count of the days. Nightfall quickly became his favorite time, though. Even though he was sent to clean and forbidden from seeing Bertholdt, just knowing the boy was alive somewhere on that second floor was enough.

The rumors of his death had ceased circulation when Annie Leonhart began visiting instead of the midwives. Reiner only really knew her by association. The Leonharts’ and Brauns’ had always clashed over woodland, never entertaining the thought to share, and the grudge had been passed down like tradition for the past three or four generations. Like many of the matched girls, she’d be finding a new trade soon, and it seemed to the community that she’d chose the bloody path of a midwife.

Reiner shuddered at the thought. Unlike Bertholdt, he could hardly enjoy the presence of the women. To his knowledge, there were four in service, all of them aged past the point of silver hair. Some could be cruel-sounding and others had a saintly touch, but all were nosey in the worst of ways. Midwives stood in place of educated doctors in the village, relying only on common sense, experience, and a touch of superstition to heal. As such, they were relied on heavily throughout all seasons and received bountiful gifts in payment for their seemingly tireless work.

 

Adelaide shifted in her seat at the loom, jarring Reiner from his thoughts. His knuckles were already stained black from the soot of the hearth, but his work was hardly done. Adelaide seemed to be noticing the same thing. Taking up the stiff bristled brush, Reiner got to hand and knee and began scrubbing at the flagstone again before she could possibly give him the time to rest. Being given the chance to be here was enough. It was high time he start making up for what Bertholdt couldn’t do.

Annie’s footsteps were light on the staircase as she came down, but Reiner’s close attention to any sound coming from the second floor betrayed her presence. He straightened up expectantly.

Her hair, he noticed, was cropped quite short where girls this age often wore them long. Annie had even donned the white tunic and skirt of the midwives. Like all Leonharts’, her eyes were fetching: a light, bubbling spring water blue in all manner of tints and shades, and there was a kind of eager life to her alert gaze that kept Reiner on his toes. She was quick to demand and could taunt better than Marcel. A presence like that at an age that young practically commanded the respect of her equals.

“I need water for Bertholdt,” she said simply as she wiped her hand against the hem of her tunic. Adelaide motioned for Reiner to fetch it, but by the time she’d done so, he was already fetching the pail by the doorway. The nearest spring wasn’t far. Forgoing shoes, the young hunter lingered just long enough to catch the conversation that followed.

“He’s doing better. Wakeful, but he’s seeing blur--.”

The door closing cut off Annie’s next words, leaving Reiner in the quickly cooling night air. Bertholdt was awake. Reiner strained to look back at the Fubar household as he left the path, barely making out the open second window and a darkness he could only assume to be Bertholdt himself, sitting up in bed. The sight made Reiner’s footsteps quicken.

The quiet spring trickled easily from a gouged hole. The rock face itself had been claimed and carved by Bertholdt’s ancient family members, long back when The Homelands were nothing but a series of rolling hills and punctured aquifers spilling over the grass. In proper style, the smooth slate had been carved by some forebear of the Fubar family tree. Reiner ran his fingertips over the deep curves of crocuses in bloom and open-faced clams pillowing their pearls as his bucket filled with the weak flow of water.

He took an indulgent drink from the rockface himself before starting the return trip with a pail half full. To his delight, the moment his feet met the path, Reiner could see Bertholdt’s face clearly as he spoke out the window to Annie in the meager gardens below. As always, his voice was soft and couldn’t be heard clearly at Reiner’s distance. His vision must have been blurred as Annie had said, as every few moments his face contorted into a hard squint as if to be sure she was still there.

“I got your water,” Reiner called out to Annie, lifting the bucket as she looked up. Bertholdt’s face disappeared with a sudden squeak, the boy withdrawing into his room at the call. Annie’s face grew an annoyed scowl, motioning to the cucumber and tomato she held in her arms. “I can’t exactly give it to him, now can I? Why don’t you go up there and give it to him?”

Reiner had been a second away from protesting before he caught her thin smile and the glimmer to her eyes.

He struggled to keep his grin under wraps. “I’ll just…go do that, then,” claimed Reiner, just loud enough to be overheard through Bertholdt’s open window. He rounded the house (“Support his head!” Annie had called after) and entered with every intent to give his visitation the air of a heavy burden. Adelaide passed him a kind smile and a knowing glance as he took cautiously to the staircase. The only thing holding him back from rushing was the heavy slosh of water and the knowledge that any spill would have to be tended to by him. It didn’t take long, though, and Reiner only managed to spill two drops on the floorboards before he reached the second floor.

Hobart’s desk lay in full display, the maps pushed aside for bandaging and a length of catgut that Reiner had to wish no look at any longer than it took to identify it. Bertholdt’s bedroom, beyond the desk, was closed off by a hanging length of curtain tapestry depicting the dark silhouette of a pheasant among reeds. Carefully, Reiner carried the pail at his side and knocked courteously once he’d reached the doorframe.

The sound of rustling bedsheets brought a smile to Reiner’s face. “I’ve orders from your keeper to assist you,” he called cheerfully; “I do hope you’re decent.”

Bertholdt’s resulting squeak was good enough for Reiner, who pushed the cloth aside with little effort and set the pail by the immediate door side. Unlike Reiner’s straw and pelt pallet, Bertholdt had an honest bed of plainly woven canvas, stuffed in a mix of feather and wool. Such lush was almost enough to turn the hunter envious, only to remember that they would soon share such a bed when their own house was built. The perks of wedding a land owner, he could only assume.

Bertholdt himself hid somewhere under the furs and coverings as a prone figure. Reiner prodded him lightly about the navel and the disguise was quickly tossed away to reveal a flushed and embarrassed young land owner with a faint sweat at his brow. The sight was enough to make Reiner laugh, though he’d never admit much of it was relief. Having last seen him with blood over his face, it did Reiner good to see Bertholdt wakeful and in one piece.

 

It didn’t occur to Reiner that his laughter was soon turning to joyful tears until Bertholdt’s flush faded and his hands, far softer than Reiner’s own, met the hunter’s cheeks to wipe away the wetness. Amid trembling arms and quivering lips, Bertholdt was soon pulling his match onto the bedcovers for a long, much needed embrace. He’d never done much in the act of comforting, but he knew much from his mother and was pressing close lipped kisses to Reiner’s crown, smoothing the furrows of his brow with gentle fingertips, and petting his fair hair.

Bertholdt waited until Reiner’s sobs withered to release their hug, petting over the hunter’s face as they parted. “I know what happened,” he said softly, scooting over on the bed to allow Reiner the room to sit comfortably. “I don’t blame you, or Marcel.”

“It was an accident,” Reiner declared quaveringly, “If I’d paid any attention at all, if I’d kept my hand on the--.”

Bertholdt cut Reiner off in the middle of his building tirade (that sounded suspiciously like one of Garrard’s angry speeches) to kiss him soundly on the cheek. The shock was apparent for only a moment and Reiner quieted with a morose expression.

“I don’t blame you,” Bertholdt repeated patiently, having to squint slightly to see Reiner properly. “I’m fine. Annie says so; I’ll be fine in a matter of days. A little dizzy and light sensitive, but fine.” He touched the back of his head softly, his smile blooming slowly. “You guys definitely knocked me a good one, I’ll give you that. Maybe Marcel should take up hunting, if he can hit with that much force.”

“Are you kidding me?” Reiner countered, finally catching the same easy energy Bertholdt let off, although his voice remained strained from crying. “Marcel got lucky! He couldn’t hit a cow in broad daylight, let alone a hare in the underbrush.”

“He’s apparently good enough to hit Bertholdt in the back of the head from across the market,” Annie interjected, having come through the tapestry as Reiner objected Marcel’s talent, “without even using his own weapon. Hard enough to need catgut, too.”

Bertholdt shrugged, allowing Reiner to bend him as the news sunk in. Sure enough, 15 neat stitches of catgut remained in the back of Bertholdt’s head, still mottled purple and yellow. “Looks horrible,” he choked out finally, hating to think what that must have felt like as he fought the associated nausea.

“He’ll be fine,” Annie assured, placing a plate at Bertholdt’s side. The scent of cucumbers and tomato held an appropriate testament to the coming summer months, fresh and apparently tasteful as Bertholdt quickly put a slice into his mouth. Reiner slipped off the bed to attend to the water at the door once Annie had shoved a cup into his hands.

It was then, and not for the first time, that Reiner fell in love with Bertholdt. There, in Annie’s company, holding Bertholdt’s head, resting it back and watching the gentle lull of his throat gulping down the fresh water, Reiner knew he’d made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really like to know how I'm doing, can I get a little feedback?


	7. Stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coming months could only make them older, a year closer to finally being married and living out all those stories Bertholdt told...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of posts! 
> 
> Between a week long vacation in Florida, two weeks without internet, and starting up the first two weeks of my new job, I've had little time to post! Rest assured, this isn't abandoned.

The first time Bertholdt ever saw a Titan, he’d been the luckiest boy in the world.

 

Halfway up a tree with Reiner and well out of harm’s way, Bertholdt saw the great thing off in the distance. Though he didn’t know it at the time, the Titan was actually about as small as they get, only 3 meters. But from his height, the creature seemed only dwarfed by the great trees all around them. Reiner had been quick to boast that he’d seen over a dozen in his time hunting in the woodland. Marcel was quicker to doubt from the nearby birch.

“Where’s it going?” Annie asked aloud, to which Marcel looked toward the sky.

“Sun rises at the East…it’s headed North-West, it looks like. Towards The Walls, if I had to guess. The smell of that much humanity all huddled up and stinking in its cage must be like a treat to them,” assumed Marcel, trying to climb to a higher vantage point than his wife-to-be. Handfuls of broad leaves showered over Annie in his haste before Marcel’s head poked over the treetop, where the breeze was quick to buffet his sable hair.

“They never break through, though,” Reiner retorted, to which Marcel laughed openly.

“If only they could, right?”

 

It was no surprise to see a Titan every few years. The village had been ransacked before by the greedy creatures, but it’d been generations ago that they’d ever suffered more than a few broken houses and a missing person or three. Hunters cocky enough to draw the attention of one were sure to never return. It’d been taught to retreat to basements if inside a building, retreating to trees or the underbrush if caught outside. They found it hard to sniff out the smaller numbers, and The Walls provided enough promise that the Homelands were comparable to a single grain of rice on the way to a feast.

What lied inside The Walls were a mystery to the community, but their effects weren’t hidden. Villages too close to the walls were ravaged by Titans too impatient to wait for the unbreakable wall to crumble. Garrard liked to tell the tale of when he saw actually horses and riders passing through his woodland at breakneck speeds. Other than that, neither hide nor hair of the rest of humanity had been seen. Thankfully, the gap between The Walls and The Homeland were great and their influence had little presence.

 

Summer was quietly piddling by with easy vegetable harvests and warm rivers to wash in once the chores were over. Building had officially begun for the Land Owners and the Fubar household was no different. The lands bought from Hobart had now been commissioned to be built upon and in most cases, furnished by Adelaide. In any other case, Bertholdt should have been caught up in both areas of work. Out of some mercy for his son’s further healing, however, Hobart only asked a half-day’s labor of Bertholdt before Reiner whisked him way around noon with promises of safekeeping.

Free of his indentured servitude, Reiner acted as Bertholdt’s personal crutch. He was hardly up for Marcel’s races through town without giving way to a spell of dizziness. Annie assured Reiner it was common for people concussed, but Reiner couldn’t help the protective urge that shot through him each time Bertholdt held to the nearest tree trunk for stability.

The group found themselves having long walks at Bertholdt’s comfort, often being regaled by far off tales of six children and beams carved with crocuses, which was more for Reiner’s enjoyment than anyone else’s. If not walking, the wide river played host to abalone hunts. Having learned from his mother, Bertholdt pointed out easy picking grounds and always held to Reiner’s arm when bending to fish a shell from the rocks. Time would heal Bertholdt’s lingering symptoms, only making him stronger. The coming months could only make them older, a year closer to finally being married and living out all those stories Bertholdt told. It seemed to Reiner that fate had laid the future out plain to see.

Until the future came falling upon them with the autumn leaves, as welcome as a thief in the night.


	8. Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not that bad,” Bertholdt confessed shyly...

“It’s inevitable; the village to the North-East has already fallen. They’re getting too comfortable, branching out--.”

“And the people?”

 

Reiner crept close, having woken at the eve of night. There were snares to check near the edge of the woodland, but he’d heard voices coming from his father’s den and approached in search of Garrard.

 

“Gone. Rounded up or thrown out, we have no way of knowing. The Bauers’ left almost as soon as they arrived, but they saw horses at the horizon--.”

“So Leoda said. Everyone else failed to notice them.”

 

There was a loud sigh of frustration and a chair scraping the flagstone as it was pushed back. Reiner peered around the corner. The table was flanked by men of the community, hunters and farmers in equal count. Lanzo Berwick was among them, but not Hobart Fubar, nor Abel Leonhart.

 

“We have to do something; they’re already so close--.”

“What do you propose? Meet them in the fields, beg for our skins?”

“The doctor, Yeager--.”

 

“Reiner.”

 

Garrard’s deep voice put the table in hush and Reiner froze. The tone put it in mind this was not something to be listened in on, but it was much too late for that. He was caught between apology and panic, but Garrard reassured him with a calm motion of his hand. It was no trouble, then.

“There’s the snares…it’ll be dark if we wait around,” Reiner murmured, explaining his presence, but his father brushed the matter aside. “The snares can wait until the morning,” he stated softly. The other members of the meeting seemed uneasy with Reiner so close at hand, shifting in their seats. “Why don’t you go see Bertholdt? There’s no reason for work this late; go out.”

Nodding, Reiner beat a hasty retreat. It was only until later, on the path to the Fubars’ residence, that Reiner could forget the eerie news of nearing forces under the pleasing balm of seeing Bertholdt again.

 

-

 

“Mother’s preparing me to follow the midwives around,” Bertholdt mumbled glumly. Sitting up under the covers, he and Reiner formed a small tent to converse in while his parents slept in their room below. Sneaking Reiner in might not have been the best idea, but it would have been worse should he leave without their knowing. “You and Annie would be spending a lot of time together, then,” Reiner whispered in return, his voice reassuring.

Bertholdt’s shoulders fell marginally, the sheets following them. “I just don’t like the…the thought of it. Some of them can be almost cruel.” Smirking, Reiner knew exactly who Bertholdt meant. The eldest midwife, Mag, was known to curse as fluently as a river would flow and it didn’t matter who she treated. She healed well, though, and it was unwise to mention her uncouth ways. “I can understand,” Reiner said softly, “but it’ll be important later in life. What if something happened to me out in the woodland?”

A glimmer of shock crossed Bertholdt’s face, quickly covered as he bit at his lower lip. “I don’t want to think about that,” he mumbled, but Reiner was quick to press. “I’d need a healer, right? And quick, too. With you on hand, it’ll be no problem. Besides, I wouldn’t mind needing tonics or getting catgut if my healer was so pretty.”

Bertholdt’s face cut through with a blush as he retorted. “You’re not making any sense!” His embarrassment was masked by a grumpy pout that nearly made Reiner laugh. Not wanting to risk waking the adults, he only smiled. “Getting married doesn’t mean you have to quit being a land owner. It just means you have to put up with me.” Bertholdt’s pouting withered as Reiner kissed his cheek, a slight grin replacing it. “You’re not that bad,” Bertholdt confessed shyly.

In his heart, Reiner hoped he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope two chapters in one day makes up for lack of posting?


	9. Autumn Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There wouldn’t be a moment to rest; not for a horse, not for a story, and the thought alone wore Bertholdt to his bones...

Reiner’s ninth birth month was quick to pass in a flurry of orange, red, and brown. The Homelands seemed to be clinging to each day like tree sap, though; so much to be done, so little time before the frosts. Bertholdt was sent out often, dashing through the market square to deliver blankets and baskets he’d crafted beside his mother. People flowed easily among one another, carting sheaves of grain and hauling great gourds. Imagine his excitement, then, when Bertholdt ran right through the market square and came up alongside a horse.

 

A horse, bigger than he could have imagined, that grunted and puffed hot air as it tugged a handsome covered wagon. Mind, Bertholdt knew what a horse was, but never had he come this close to one. Horses were things to be feared in most cases, either loose in the wild or carrying men from inside The Walls. The community much preferred the oxen pull their carriages and wagons. Why fall dead from horseback when you could trust your own two feet? The great sable beast was coated in a thin sheen of sweat and road dust, huffing as Reiner did when embarrassed.

 

There was a man on the cart, but Bertholdt could take little in about him before realizing he was passing up the destination. Ducking behind the wagon, he entered the elderhome and took in its perfumed scent.

 

This had been Bertholdt’s favorite place in youth. No more than an open lodge and a roaring fire, the elderhome was simply a resting place for the out of home elders and those close to death. Scented ashes were burned in small clay plates, masking the stench of looming Death and creating calm. As a child, Bertholdt had come here to be told stories, often of his birth and the history of his family.

 

A few of those elders attempted to regale him once again, but Bertholdt politely declined, handing each a blanket. There was still so much to do and two more houses to rise before the first snowfall. There wouldn’t be a moment to rest; not for a horse, not for a story, and the thought alone wore Bertholdt to his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness, another will be coming out in the next day or so.


	10. Snowfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt meant to thank her, to return the favor, to reassure her that being a bride suited the both of them...

Reiner’s battlecry was the only warning Bertholdt got before being driven into the snowbank. Flustered, Bertholdt struggled to right himself while laughing. His face was flushed with cold and exertion as Reiner hauled him back up, letting hands brush his furs of snowflakes and welcoming the kiss that landed on each cheek. Reiner kept claiming them as Bertholdt’s birth month presents, often followed by nuzzling nose to nose that made Bertholdt both ecstatic and embarrassed. These kisses weren’t the only presents Bertholdt had received: Garrard’s best hunting hound was thick with unborn pups and Bertholdt had been promised the healthiest of the litter come spring.

 

His thoughts had been on that exactly when Reiner decided to playfully tackle his bride-to-be, and even through his bootprints had ruined Bertholdt’s rough sketch of a pup, the landowner couldn’t find it in him to be upset. He met Reiner's nose-touch with gentleness, nuzzling this way and that as he'd seen his parents do in quiet happy moments.

 

The snow was laid out thick. Marcel and Annie both had slowly accumulated an arsenal of snowballs, packed together with icy red palms. Both had grown accustomed to the affection Reiner showed, only being a year younger themselves. In all honesty, it was a common and innocent gesture they could ignore so long as it didn't interfere with play. Marcel must have deemed it so, because it was his own snowball to Reiner's back that split the two apart.

 

"Come on, Reiner, we didn't come out here so you could coddle your bride in the ice," Marcel mocked, crumpling snow into a ball, replacing the one that he threw.

 

"He keeps me warm, I'll have you know," Reiner shot back, preparing for what could only be a fight of epic (for their age)  proportions. Bertholdt sidestepped as the hunter eagerly began gathering loose snow at their feet. The last battle hadn't ended up so well for him. Annie seemed to sense as such, corralling her snowballs together with Marcel's ("Hey, that's giving him unfair advant--" Reiner began to whine, cut off by a snowball to the cheek.) and stepping away from the scene with him.

 

"Boys, huh?" Annie muttered. She brushed her long hair aside from her face with a smile. When Bertholdt didn't respond, she was quick to amend. "That was supposed to be joking. Y'know, you're a boy, but they're--."

 

"More boyish?" Bertholdt provided.

 

Annie peered sidelong at Bertholdt, taking in his offput expression. "No," she said softly, "no, you're just different. I mean, I can't talk to Marcel like I talk to you. They're....they're protective and -- and _bold_ and sometimes they smell _a lot_ if we don't remind them to visit the rivers." A smile slid easily across Bertholdt's lips, a soft chuckle on his breath. "You're not any less than them, Bertholdt," Annie reassured, taking his hand softly and bringing him to a stop. He felt icy pinpricks of sweat under her gaze, but he tried to meet Annie's eyes. "You're a bride, like me. We get to...we get to do different things. Learn different trades and they rely on us for that. Because we become a lot more than we were born to be."

 

"Reiner said he wouldn't mind catgut if I was the one to give it to him," Bertholdt confessed shyly.

 

"That boy is stubborn; if he said that, you're doing right. Brides and husbands, they're a team. Partnership, is what my dad said. Perfect compliments yet opposite and reliant on one another." Bertholdt could hear the excitement to her voice. She had obviously been told this many times, or else told herself. She hadn't had much choice in choosing Marcel, but Bertholdt could hear that she believed every word to be true. She was Marcel's perfect compliment; his reliant opposite.

 

He'd meant to tell her as such. Bertholdt meant to thank her, to return the favor, to reassure her that being a bride suited the both of them. But Reiner's pained wailing, a chill to Bertholdt's heart moreso than any winter wind, had him biting his tongue and the both of them dashing back to the scene.

 

Marcel was over Reiner, not where they'd been throwing snow, but a handful of yards away over a frozen patch that was once a spring. Bertholdt easily dashed across the ice, confident in its thickness to carry him to Reiner's side. Marcel's hands were already flaking red with iced blood, sections of the ice swathed with it. "It wasn't me this time, I swear," Marcel panicked, eyes widening as Bertholdt came closer. "We were just messing around; he fell! I didn't do anything!" The landowner shoved Marcel (he'd have to explain later that it was not meant unkindly) to take his place, pulling at Reiner (screaming, crying, wailing, bloody) until the boy's head was in his lap. Annie, trekking a much slower pace across the ice, looked entirely nervous as Marcel approached her with red hands.

 

"Get Mags!" Bertholdt called back to her, "I think his nose is broken!"

 

Think wasn't exactly the word needed. It was clear the break was high, and by Reiner's reaction, degrees of pain beyond what Bertholdt knew to care for. So he offered Reiner his hand, keeping him close and blocking the worst of the winds, gentling him as a mother cat would her kitten. It did little outwardly, but Bertholdt could only hope it was enough while Annie ran her fastest to the elderhome. His hand was shaking as it supported Reiner's head against his lap, carding through the short hair nervously.

 

"It will be alright," he promised as Reiner bawled, "It'll be alright..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I can get the story flowing toward the middle and afterward, the end, a lot easier now. Massive plotholes were tossed out and patched up.


	11. The Horse and His Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt nodded softly, working nimble fingers through her hair in a thin neat plait. "I miss him, is all."
> 
> "How much?"
> 
> "...Fiercely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simply for aid of timekeeping, here's the current ages and canon (and headcanon) birthdates of the involved by the end of this chapter.
> 
> Reiner Braun - 9 years old, August 1st  
> Bertholdt Fubar - 9 years old, December 30th  
> Annie Leonhart - 9 years old, February 22nd  
> Marcel Berwick - 8 years old, (headcanon) July 17th
> 
> They're Arranged around 8 years of age, and married (though may or may not technically live together) at 13 years of age. Hartmutt means 'brave mind' and the pup is only 5 months old.

After Garrard took Reiner from Bertholdt's side on the spring's ice, the landowner didn't see his husband for months. In fact, no one did. The Braun household remained shut off to the rest of the villiage. Mags didn't visit past the week following Reiner's broken nose. Marcel was turned away from the front door. Annie wasn't even allowed in, not even to do a follow up on Reiner's condition. Candlelight flickered on and off at various hours. Once, while delivering a heavy coat to the elderhome, Bertholdt paused long enough to watch the window curtain of Reiner's window move, as if someone had stepped away quick. Come springtime, a puppy was left tied to the fence post of the Fubar's garden without sign of Reiner or Garrard to present the young hound to his intended master. Hobart muttered about disgracefulness under his breath. It was the first time Bertholdt had ever heard his father speak ill of any Braun, but he couldn't help but agree. The terms of bridewealth were to be met as family, not a present left on the porch, unannounced.

 

Bertholdt was quick to name him Hartmutt.

 

Most of his anxious time was spent at Marcel and Annie's side, the newly appointed third wheel of the bunch. Winter over, Bertholdt was back to shellfish and pearl hunting, and with Hartmutt's training and one eye on the Braun's front door, the landowner was hardly restful. The absence had many growing worried. Garrard was a figurehead to the town. Now Abel Leonhart was pulling Annie from midwifery to help with hunting once more. Not a single piece of communal meat was passed from the Braun's butcher table since the ice melted.

 

Marcel apologized profusely when he was called away fro the early planting season. Annie out to hunt at all hours, he to plant, Reiner isolated, and all Bertholdt had was his dog. The dapple coated little thing followed him near everywhere, listening with the kind of eager intensity Bertholdt was used to seeing from Reiner. In time, he'd learned plenty of simple commands and every night he spent in Bertholdt's bed.

 

Annie turned nine years rather uneventfully, but it was apparent she was glad to be growing and taking on more responsibilities. She nearly demanded them, taking on many of Reiner's old roles on top of her own. She attended births, hunted game, cut the firewood that fueled the elderhome, and still found time to visit Bertholdt when he was feeling his lowest. But sometimes, when Bertholdt was at his breaking point, he needed to visit someone on his own terms.

 

\--

 

In the bustling midst of May, Bertholdt nearly ran into that horse again. The great sable beast had been around every few months or so, always found outside the elderhome, always strapped to his cart, but not always carting someone. The wonder was still there as he patted the horse's neck gently, but masked under the layers of worry for Reiner. He slipped past it carefully, wandering into the elderhome like a stray.

 

A weather-battered elder woman sits closest to the hearth. Bertholdt weaves his way through the masses, saying nothing as he places a hand on her knee. With the other, he takes a warm blanket from the hearth, one of his own creations. Her bony hand, covered in hypertropic scars of various age, encircles his wrist as he lay the blanket over her lap. Out of all the elders, she is Bertholdt’s favorite and the closest he’s ever gotten to having a grandmother.

 

She is Eald Eiswein, the very last of the Eiswein farmers. They had lived far outside the town, a seemingly endless expanse of land all their own. That land, however, had dried up long ago when an errant Titan paid visit. Her husband and children gone, Eald grew careless and stubborn, trying and failing to bring harvests in on her own and refusing help. Old families were stubborn about such things, much like the Brauns’ and their hunting grounds. Now the poor woman was far into old age; her mind was weakening, eyes a shade of blue too pale to imply health, her ashen hair of great length thin as smoke. 

 

"Bertholdt," she murmurs scratchily, her tongue sounding heavily over the 'h'. How curiously she peered at him, as if trying to see through a thick fog. But this was regular for her poor sight, and Berthold simply nodded in affirmation and moved to begin braiding the old woman's hair. "Yes, I...I wondered when you'd be back."

 

"He's still not been around, grandmother," Bertholdt informed her, keeping his words close to her ear as not to disturb the other elders. "I'm afraid for him."

 

"Oh, child, we would have seen a funeral if something had happened to him," she stated casually, waving a frail hand to dismiss his concerns. "Where would he go? Where could he disappear to? There is more to spend your worry and time on than the absence of a husband. They always come back to us in the end." Eald fell silent quickly, as if the small talk had tired her physically. " _Mausi_ , there is little you can do for him right now. Focus on yourself. He will appear in time."

 

Bertholdt nodded softly, working nimble fingers through her hair in a thin neat plait. "I miss him, is all."

 

"How much?"

 

"...Fiercely."

 

Moments of quiet stretched between them and once Bertholdt reached the end of his third braid, Eald was looking at him with new, confused eyes. "You know," she explained slowly, "I have a son your age." Sadly, Bertholdt nodded. Eald wasn't herself, but it was in his kindness that he played along. "Yes...he's about your age, you must have seen him around. His name was Bertholdt, too." Eald's smile began to sour as her mind tried placing the pieces together, made all the more difficult by age and repression.

 

"I wonder where he's went to..."

 

\--

 

Hartmutt jolted out of bed, fleeing the space as Hobart came into Bertholdt's room. The hound wasn't supposed to be on the mattress, and the groggy Bertholdt was about to apologize when Hobart stuffed a light cloak against his sleep-warmed chest.

 

"Put it on, Bertholdt, and quick," he whispered softly. The embers of the day's fire glowed from their place in the hearth through the cracks in the floorboards, and in the dim light, all Bertholdt could see was a panic and sadness in Hobart's face. He did as told, however, ushering Hartmutt away to his own bedding. Taking him by the hand, Hobart led him from the room. The maps open on the landowner's table had changed. Precise circles had been drawn, distances measured... Bertholdt's eyes tore from them as he was taken silently down the stairs. Out the door. Under the night sky, with the hooting of owls to cover their footsteps, Bertholdt finally begged the question. Where was he going?

 

"To The Doctor," Hobart replied swiftly, and that was that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to reassure you, this isn't THE Doctor, and the Titans don't have the Tardis.


	12. Sketchy Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have to save them from The Wall," he whispered under breath, "I have to save them. Us. Our future. You."

The cellar doors were closed when Hobart reached them. Not only closed, barred. 

 

Garrard took his cloak from him.

 

That horse was nearby. He could hear it whinny in the night.

 

Bertholdt briefly thought of wolves before Hobart was closing the cellar door. Leaving him.

 

Garrard kept him still. Kept him down on the table ( _the butcher block_ ) while he was set aflame.

 

That damned horse huffed and bellowed as the Braun hounds howled.

 

Bertholdt thought of wolves.

 

\--

 

Bertholdt awoke to the sound of crickets, warm in his own bed. Hartmutt snuffed in his sleep, probably dreaming of the hunt. Reiner slept upright in a chair at his bedside.

 

Jolting up, Berthold grabbed at his own head quickly, wincing in pain and whining a low note of pain. Reiner's eyes flickered open, his own hands coming forth to press against Bertholdt's temples. It was if he were a pitcher of water, cracked on both sides and leaking water fast. The pressure from Reiner's palms eased the flowing sensation, and the hunter eased him prone once more. "What's happened," Bertholdt sobbed softly, confusion and relief hitting him at once, pain soon to follow. Reiner didn't respond. The space under his eyes was heavy and dark. The break along his nose was discolored, but otherwise healed. Where his nose was once a single flowing line, a sharp jarring bump interrupted the feature now. But he was here, whole and in Bertholdt's home.

 

"It's alright," Reiner said softly, echoing that winter day on the ice. His tough hands were gentle in scratching against Bertholdt's scalp, relieving pressure. "You're weak right now; you need as much rest as you can get."

 

"Feels like I've slept forever," Bertholdt muttered, voice thick as fat tears eased from the corner of his eyes to his earlobes.

 

"You have, actually," he informed, taking Bertholdt by the hand. "You've been awake a few times now. It was the same with me. You'll drift in and out a few times, so if you feel the need to sleep, don't fight it. You may not remember this in the long run, anyways."

 

"...you were just...gone."

 

Guilt overcame Reiner's features, but his hand stayed strong in Bertholdt's.

 

"I know. I didn't have a choice."

 

The young landowner's fingers tightened around the young hunter's. In the end, Bertholdt didn't fall back asleep.

 

\---

 

Annie disappeared for a while. Marcel, too. Bertholdt still didn't fully understand it, but Reiner kept looking about with a strange mix of sadness and determination. He took Bertholdt to their bedsides, when the time was right. It seemed everything was simply about the right times now. Wait nearly a month to see Annie, a few more weeks to see Marcel, observe the change in season and wait again for the town meetings to be over. Wait to play. Wait to talk. Wait your turn. 

 

It was Reiner that kept them utterly silent at the meetings, and that's where they learned everything. More and more men and women from within the walls were being seen at the borders of The Homeland. Villages were being harvested; the people within were either moved into The Walls or fled into surrounding towns and Titan-infested woodland. The Wall remained indestructible, the backlog of titans threatening the very existence of The Homeland. They could either disappear behind it, lose everything and conform to the ways of those inside The Walls, or they could fight. But picking off the ones at the borders, no, that wouldn't do. Best to be rid of the titans and The Walls in one fell swoop. Knock them down, lets the Titans within. Borrow the power. Turn into Titans.

 

Bertholdt had never heard anything so preposterous. Becoming a Titan was unheard of, or at least it was until Reiner was sent by Garrard to 'train' them.

 

It was a coudless autumn day, just a handful of days after Reiner's tenth year of age passed, that they were instructed to meet in a field. Reiner and Bertholdt's field. Bertholdt solemnly left Hartmutt in his room, taking the staircase slowly. People in the town looked at him differently now, in part fear and reverence. It took only a single day to turn from mildly respected landowner's son into the first and last defense of his homelands. His parents treated him gently, as if he were still concussed. There was no work for him, not anymore. Just listen to Garrard; listen to Reiner. As Bertholdt set off to his field, he took into consideration that each of them had left their lives. Marcel was no longer farming. Annie now shouldered the ultimate responsibility. They were still young...

 

"It takes pain," he could hear Reiner command as he closed the distance. Annie and Marcel were spaced far apart, both teeming with excited energy. Taking a place close to Annie, Bertholdt nearly had the time to ask her what was going on before Reiner was moving him apart, giving them the same space Marcel and Annie had. Bertholdt began to sweat nervously. Reiner had him by the hand, but this was different. They were both hiding nervousness, but Reiner was putting on a mask of leadership. The touch felt nearly clinical.

 

"You're late," he scolded hollowly, shucking Bertholdt of his light cloak. When the landowner offered no excuse, Reiner began his instructing. "It takes pain. And a goal, something that requires a titan to accomplish. I'm going to show you guys how, but I need you to try to think up a goal." And he was gone, turning back to his place and taking Bertholdt's cloak with him. Bertholdt stood there, still, and thought clearly. There was a goal only a Titan could accomplish. There was a goal only _he_ could accomplish.

 

"I have to save them from The Wall," he whispered under breath, "I have to save them. Us. Our future. You."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Love
> 
> We'll be seeing Mr. Armored Titan soon. Things are going to get a little faster paced, too.


	13. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We can do this!" Marcel shouted in victory, climbing into Reiner's open palm and hanging over his thumb...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 year time skip to pull a nice shag rug over all those nasty plot holes.

He was a huge mass of naked muscle and armor plating; a massive force meant for destruction and defense. It took his breath away, literally. The steam and heat Reiner emitted was intense, the sudden change hitting Bertholdt like a shockwave. The partial transformations and half-won shifting had felt nothing like this, so among the fear that bloomed as Bertholdt braced himself, a spark of joy lit his heart. Reiner had done it. 

 

Marcel was the first to react, wooping and shouting, racing toward him and bellowing praise as he climbed Reiner's new form. The great Titan was in repose, back nestled against some forest trees that stressed to bend in support of him. In awe, Bertholdt sprinted over; Annie, now shocked from her stillness, close behind. It had taken what seemed like forever, and Reiner had been the last to fully transform. But now, they'd done it. They all could harness the power of the Titans.

 

"We can do this!" Marcel shouted in victory, climbing into Reiner's open palm and hanging over his thumb. "We can bust down The Walls!"

 

 

 

\---

 

"You really did it," Bertholdt said softly, a kind look across his face. The dark circles under Reiner's eyes were apparent, but he nodded happily.

 

"We're all Titans now," he continued, walking at Reiner's side back into town. The hunter chuckled. "Marcel calls us 'Warriors'."

 

Bertholdt grimaced at the name as Reiner looped his fingers about the Land Owner's. Over the passing years, things had reached normality. Casual holding and touches and Reiner's embarrassing nose-kisses had returned as the quartet continued 'training'. The Homelands treated them and their families as gods. Hobart said this was nothing to stop working over, but in truth Adelaide hadn't been at her loom in quite some time. In that time, they'd each been pushed and shoved into early teenage years at different rates. Bertholdt was proud to say he was taller than any other child in The Homelands now, and not just in Titan Form.

 

The spring crocuses were still bright among the nettles and grasses. It felt like decades ago that he and Reiner would sit here, walk this field, and talk of marriage. Now marrying age was only a year off for them. Bertholdt began to leave Reiner's side as they walked homeward, picking the crocus blooms and working them over in his hands. Hartmutt awaited Bertholdt as he neared, like a mother over a tardy child, and as the boys came upon the path to the Fubar's home, the hound sped towards them in eagerness. Reiner was quick to brace himself at Bertholdt's side when Hartmutt barreled into him, shoving the hunter backward and assaulting his tired face with licks as Bertholdt continued walking at his leisure.

 

Two clicks was all it took to call the obedient dog back to his master at the door. The hunter got to his feet, flushed pink in embarrassment before Bertholdt turned it red with a kiss on his cheek. "Congratulations," Bertholdt whispered softly, putting the crocus flower crown on Reiner's head. Flustered, Reiner stuttered his thanks, messily pressing a kiss to Bertholdt's lips and walking away too quick to be considered normal. The taller boy couldn't laugh, but his expression was bright and even though Reiner was almost too far to hear, he called out his love before letting himself inside.


	14. New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Warriors?" questioned Reiner, offering Bertholdt his hand...

"Mother's pregnant!"

 

Bertholdt sat upright in bed, his embroidery abandoned as Reiner's booted feet could be heard dashing up the staircase. Quick thinking helped him move the needle and cloth to the bedside table before the hunter launched himself onto the bed, collapsing over Bertholdt in a joyous ball of excited energy, cheeks pinked with exertion, his wheat-gold hair warmed by the summer sun. "What do you mean, pregnant?" Bertholdt demanded in shock. A smile was already creeping over his lips, mirroring Reiner's grin.

 

"Mags came by the house at dawn; said Mother had the sickness of pregnancy. She'll be expecting a spring birth!" Sighing happily, Reiner sprawled across Bertholdt's chest, ear to his heart. The land owner blushed, his smile faltering the longer the silence stretched on. "But..."

 

Bertholdt struggled to sit, propping up on his elbows. "We're supposed to leave in a week for The Walls. We'll miss the birth...won't we?"

 

At this, Reiner's young face scrunched up in confusion, as if what Bertholdt suggested was childlike. " _No_ , you dumb-dumb! We're just busting a few holes in The Wall." The hunter sat up on his heels, walking two fingers over Bertholdt's left kneecap. "A week's travel by foot, then 'bang, boom, kablewy'," Reiner's hands curled lightly into fists, crawling over a squirming Bertholdt, throwing mock punches to the younger boy's upper arm. "And we're on our way back as proud returning Warriors."

 

Bertholdt peered up at his husband behind arms held up in defense, his grin sheepish. "You sure?"

 

His arms were tugged down, Bertholdt's eyes falling shut as Reiner kissed his temple and soothed his insecurity. "Positive. We'll be back before you know it." The land owner could feel his husband lean back, green eyes peeking open a sliver. He was met with Reiner's simple grin and the hunter eased him back into playfulness with a bout of overdramatic flexing. "Warriors," Reiner grunted, using as deep a voice as he could muster, until Bertholdt broke out in laughter.

 

"Get off me, you big lug," Bertholdt teased, shoving at Reiner where the older boy was sitting on his hips. "Warriors?" questioned Reiner, offering Bertholdt his hand.

 

Bertholdt gazed at him a moment longer, taking the hand in his own with a nod. "Warriors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls into the trash can because we all know where this is going*


	15. Dearly Departed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Would you think less of me," Reiner whispered hoarsely, "if I cried?"
> 
> Berholdt held the hunter's hand ever tighter. 
> 
> "Never.."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize, I feel like my writing style has been slipping as of late. I really want to forge ahead and try to get into the meat of the story, which is kind of becoming small drabbles linked by continuity. I have plenty of works planned for their time as Trainees and Scouts/MP, so don't be surprised if this hits and passes the 40 or 50 chapter mark. If I come across headcanons (or you give prompts) I may include them. Not sure how this is working out or ending, but I have AT LEAST up to manga more or less planned out.
> 
> TL;DR - Writing's gone wacky, give me feedback.

Two russet eyes, brown as wet earth, awoke Bertholdt on a day he'd rather disappear. Hartmutt was punctual; dawn was just peeking over the hilltops and light was pouring down grey and hazed like washwater, warmth and life being choked by the fog lapping at the air. It made the boy sick just to think of. He'd not be waking to Hartmutt for a long while. He'd not feel the strain of landwork nor the thread of his loom, only the wear of travel. A weight had been crushing him for the last month. It was up to them to save the future of The Homelands, to assure they wouldn't spend their lives in expulsion. Bathilda's child would not be born some trophy of conquest. 

 

With this in mind, Bertholdt grit his teeth and slipped from his bed. Hartmutt's head was patted, but the hound kept loyal to his master's side rather than rush for his morning food. As Bertholdt slipped out of his night shirt, he fetched the knapsack from under the mattress and watched the scene with doleful eyes. Bertholdt stared back as he dressed, keeping in mind he'd barely be a half month at most when he took up the bag and planted Hartmutt's face with kisses. 

 

Adelaide awaited him downstairs as a picture of Betholdt's childhood; back to him, long ruddy brown hair an unbroken curtain as she worked the loom in silence. He tried and failed to keep the lump from his throat, instead making a beeline for his boots by the doorframe. Pausing, Adelaide listened to her son's soft sniffle as he shoved his feet in hastily, knotting the drawstring of his bag, anything to keep from looking up. "I know," she began softly to catch his attentions.

 

"I know it's been a burden, this...this _operation_ ," murmured Adelaide, as soft and timid as ever and yet captivating Bertholdt to stillness. "What you went through...what Reiner, Annie, and Marcel went through for this...it will make all the difference."

 

Bertholdt nearly questioned it, to ask whether she'd meant the weeks recovering or the years of training, but she was up from her bench before the words could form in his throat. He tried so hard to etch her in his mind, to preserve her soft voice among his fears, to memorize the plush warmth of her hugs over his every insecurity. "So young," Adelaide continued to herself, plucking her latest work off the loom and knotting the loose threads into delicate tassels. "It's a burden I wish I could take from you, my Bertholdt. I wanted nothing more than your happiness, but I could not take your place."

 

She placed the woven piece of cloth in his palm, as large as a handkerchief. Bold red-orange caught Bertholdt's eye and immediately he noted the dye: pomegranates, their skins boiled until they produced color. A large solitary crocus (deep purple dye of the overripe summer blackberries) blossomed as proudly as they did in the fields. "You will see things,  _liebling_ ; I'm not certain what they will be, but you will be experiencing far beyond what I will ever know and I can not prepare you for this." Bertholdt held the kerchief tight as Adelaide's voice became thick with sadness. "Just promise me you will come home, Bertholdt. The dangers out there, they will be great. All I want is you home."

 

Bertholdt never knew a heart could hurt so much as it did when he pulled his mother close to hold her.

 

\---

 

The townspeople had dared creep from their houses and into the fog like mice. The grasses shook the dew onto their feet as each person met in equal parts reverence and somber. It was as if the mists had choked the voices from one another; never before had Bertholdt seen the large crowd so hushed. The Brauns held one another at their doorway, Reiner looking as determined as ever. Annie kept to her father's hand. A small babe, Enza Berwick, chased at her elder brother's heel as fast as her toddling feet could carry. Marcel, as he was, remained eager and confident as ever, his only holdback being the apologies he bestowed upon the farmhands for missing the upcoming harvests. 

 

As a people, they stood about the center of town. Even the elders, at least those strong enough, stood at the doorway to the elderhome to note the day for future stories. Eald was among them, clinging to her walking stick and beckoning Bertholdt over. Bertholdt gave his parents a glance to assure them his return before he made a path toward her. If there would ever be a lightness to his chest, the sight of Eald on her own two feet would bring it about. 

 

"Here," Eald declared in a whisper, presenting a lightcloak to him in a faded shade of blue. "You have quite a walk ahead of you, _mausi_ , no need to catch cold along the way."

 

She draped the clothing over him with a bit of difficulty, leaving Bertholdt to slip into the sleeves himself. A large tooth served to clasp the clothing shut, betraying its age. Ever since Adelaide had found the delicate touch needed to drill into shell and stone, buttons had been popular among The Homelands. Bertholdt was hit with the sudden realization of what he was wearing. Eald's son, Bertholdt Eiswein, had been about his age...

 

"Make sure you don't forget about me, hm?" Eald teased lightly. Her expression was nearly unreadable, but as with everyone in the area, a tone of sadness stole the air. Bertholdt nodded and had to swallow thickly to keep the tears down, holding her gently about the middle. She was trusting him, trusting him to not let the Titans besiege them again. Knock down The Walls, protect them all...

 

A hand took Bertholdt by the shoulder, prompting him to release Eald. Reiner, eyes rimmed red with tears past, made motion toward the Fubars'. With heavy heart, Bertholdt nodded his goodbye to Eald and made way to his parents with Reiner at his side. They entangled their hands together clumsily, wet with the mists. "Would you think less of me," Reiner whispered hoarsely, "if I cried?"

 

Berholdt held the hunter's hand ever tighter. 

 

"Never," he murmured softly, coming to a stop before Hobart. The land owner's expression was pinched, looking down at the two of them with parts mixed guilt and sorrow. Adelaide wasn't far behind. Reiner was the first to break, sniffling as he reached out to Hobart for a hug. The whole event seemed surreal. Adelaide joined them and each in turn was held. The same treatment was given to Bathilda and her unborn child once Reiner marched Bertholdt over to them. Garrard, as large and strong a man as he was, seemed out of place returning Bertholdt's embrace, but the love was felt all the same. Marcel and Annie were doing the same across the clearing. It was becoming more obvious that they all sought to prolong the parting. 

 

In the end, Annie and Reiner were both crying silently as the four of them bid The Homelands a farewell, and for their troubles were promised an eye on the horizon for their safe return. Bertholdt's green eyes found his mother, his father, and Eald all in turn, nodding his finality. Together, the four of them turned and set out over the hill with the soft murmur of hymn and crying at their backs. A moment later, when Bertholdt tried to look back for a lasting memory of home, he found it swallowed up in the fog, no more a home than a sea of mists.


	16. Woodsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jeez, Bertl, that stuff was cold," he complained in a teasing tone. "Why'd you have to go swimming in that?"

Annie kept them moving briskly. Up just before the dawn, down to bed only when visibility was low. Bertholdt could never have dreamed of the seemingly endless dark that existed outside of The Homelands, without neighbor's light or torch to keep the night at bay. Though she kept the pace, Annie was not only order. Marcel was sure to keep them light with shared laughter and new experience; the future was discussed, their own upcoming marriages, and anything to keep motivated. Long periods were spent trekking plains and skirting woodlands with airy chatter, but a collective stone weighed in their bellies that could only be described as fear. Three days into their travels, the Titans started appearing. Roaming ransacked hamlets, the beasts lumbered to and fro, easily disposed of or traveled around all together. But the sight of Titans meant no longer sleeping out in the open, and as such, adjustments had to be made.

 

They retreated to the cover of thick woodlands as the sunset spilled orange, using the last light to search for water. Dogged and weary, Bertholdt took initiative. He kept the others close, stopping to listen every few paces while Reiner and Annie searched for the signs of animal activity, something a land owner might otherwise miss. The silence between them was uneasy, a feeling Marcel detested and sought to break.

 

"How close could we be?" he questioned, "To The Walls, I mean. Can't be too much further, can it?" 

 

"A two day journey, at the pace we keep," Reiner replied, bending a thin sapling aside to keep Bertholdt's path clear. "Annie's doing well to get us back as soon as we can be."

 

He spared her a grin as Bertholdt stepped past. They'd stumbled into a tight clearing, barred on all sides by trees and thick underbrush, the ground littered with leaves of autumns past. "Damn it," Bertholdt bit impatiently, "it's here somewhere!" The land owner turned on heel, frustration drawing his brow tight. "I hear it; I hear the water." Reiner nodded in agreement, expressing only sympathy. Such travel wore on Marcel and Bertholdt the worst, not used to the long trips familiar to the hunters. Bertholdt sighed heavily, making to cross the clearing. "I do this for a living, how hard is it to find a simple--!"

 

There was a second spent as the ground fell under Bertholdt's step and the boy was gone, leaving a large splash and upset water in his wake. The spring, the exact water source they'd been searching for, had been hidden under what they'd assumed to be the damp leaves of a forest clearing. Annie was the first to react, pushing Reiner aside and darting as far into the clearing as she dared. The ground was a soft peat, easily broken off, but she could only hope her grip was enough. Thrusting her hand under, Annie bared the sudden cold, grabbing the first thing her fingertips came across and giving it a pull. Reiner was quickly at her side, rushing to do the same in panic. Bertholdt came up sputtering, Reiner's hand tight held to the collar of his shirt, Annie's at his sleeve. Quaking and wailing in alarm, he was pulled from the water by the hunters as Marcel rushed over with a blanket from his pack. 

 

Reiner hushed Bertholdt softly, removing the cloak from his shoulders and shucking Bertholdt of his own. "Marcel, dry wood." he barked, "We need him warm." 

 

The farmer darted off as Reiner continued undressing the soaked boy, pulling the dry green cloak over him along with the blanket. " _Jeez_ , Bertl, that stuff was cold," he complained in a teasing tone. "Why'd you have to go swimming in _that_?"

 

Bertholdt gave Reiner a shaky glare, or at least as best one could possibly glare while shaking and pinked. They turned at the sound of a loud crack; Annie broke off a dead branch, skimming the spring of its leaves to reveal a nearly 2 meter wide pool. Bertholdt was quick to look away. "Well, at least we found water," he murmured through a shiver. 

 

\---

 

A fire and meal of common doves later, Marcel was snoring in his bedroll. Bertholdt's clothes were drying by the flames on a contraption of young branches woven by the farmer, and Annie was vigilant as ever with Marcel's hand in her own. Hardly any stars could be seen for the treetops. All Bertholdt could think of was home. "It's going to be here soon," he whispered to Reiner, who lay curled at his side. The hunter nodded in response. "Just stick to the plan," Reiner replied by Bertholdt's ear. "We kick down those walls, then we'll all be safe. Don't think about the rest."

 

Bertholdt blinked slowly, biting his tongue to the fear rising in his throat. Wrapping an arm about Reiner's torso, he pulled closer to his love and tucked his nose to Reiner's hair. 

 

This couldn't be over soon enough.


	17. Just Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, he'd like to think he could remember what that exact moment felt like: how the air felt against his pale face, the rhythm of his heartbeat, a sound off in the distance, a view of The Wall...

The Walls were so much larger up close.

 

The unbroken slab was incredulous. Bertholdt could only guess at its height as Annie led them ever closer, keeping low and quick. Titans had beat endlessly into the surface without causing so much as a flake of damage. Stopping to stare, Bertholdt felt a strike of fear as he foresaw his own potential failures, beating uselessly beside the Titans and being made a fool for it.

 

Marcel's hand struck him a second later, snapping him out of revery as the farmhand snatched at Bertholdt's collar. Together, they ducked into a partially crushed cottage with Reiner and Annie. Both Hunters were absorbed in strategy. Absorbed in strategy and oblivious to the latecomers, they peered out of broken windows and counted Titans on their hands. "Stupid, why did you stop?" Marcel growled lowly, wrapping the long end of his sleeve over his hand. "You can't stop, not here. Don't get distracted."

 

With his improvised glove, Marcel crawled close to a broken window, weeding free a large sliver of glass. The object was large enough to be a knife's blade, and sharp if to judge by the hair-thin cut it left in Bertoldt's palm when Marcel handed it over. "We'll have to make a break for it," Annie suddenly piped up, Reiner grimacing at her side but nodding in agreement. "There's a swatch of brush less than 6 meters from The Wall. If we hurry, we can hide in it and Bertholdt can shift before any of them smell us."

 

Bertholdt neared on unsteady feet, noting the underbrush in question out a glass-less window. The cover was little more than a thick hovel of holly and shrub. Titans trampled over it as they watched. The giants clearly didn't give it much attention but that didn't mean they were in any less danger by squatting there. 

 

"I'll take the lead," Annie quipped shakily, starting for the broken wall of the cottage. "You all remember the plan?"

 

Reiner nodded, Marcel and Bertholdt mimicking him as they fell into place. For a moment, Bertholdt's fears stilled. Years later, he'd like to think he could remember what that exact moment felt like: how the air felt against his pale face, the rhythm of his heartbeat, a sound off in the distance, a view of The Wall...

 

Annie's boots crunched on the gravel ahead of him. How many paces did it take? Three, four, or five? How loudly did Marcel yell as the cottage roof collapsed under the weight of a 7 meter Titan? They all ran; Annie was no less scared than Bertholdt. They stuck to the plan. But Bertholdt couldn't help it; he looked back, just a bare second. Limbs and wild hair were all he could make out before Marcel caught his attentions while climbing the Titan....prying open teeth....taking Reiner by the hand and pulling him from the creature's mouth.

 

Reiner was tossed hurriedly to the ground with a thud smothered under the bellowing of Marcel's name. That clawed hand was already shoving, stuffing its mouth, chewing...

 

Bertholdt found himself turned around at some point, rushing back to a speechless Reiner and taking him by the hand. It took all he had to pull the hunter from his place, only to find Annie rooted to the ground only a few meters away. So Bertholdt ran. Snatching Annie round her middle, Bertholdt tugged and pulled at his friends ( _Marcel_...) until they crashed through the undergrowth as a trio.

 

Ripping himself free of Bertholdt's grasp, Reiner crawled away on hands and knees to vomit. His entire lower half was coated in a thick saliva that glistened under Bertholdt's gaze. Marcel sacrificed himself and took Reiner's place. In Bertholdt's memory, Annie had never seemed so distant and scared. "We..." Bertholdt gasped for words, trying to fight back tears of frustration and guilt. "We need a plan! We don't have Marcel; We need a new plan!"

 

Reiner only heaved again. After a moment filled with Titans groaning and Reiner's whimpers, Annie touched Bertholdt's right hand gently. "Bertholdt," she breathed, "You're hurt." Her fingertips traced the hair-thin slices littering Bertholdt's palm, where the glass had cut through all of it. He'd never dropped it...

 

Bertholdt shook off Annie's grip as if it had scalded and stepped from the bushes. Smaller Titans took notice, turning to stare blearily from tiny eyes and opening wide mouths. His legs were shaking, but Bertholdt kept moving, leading Titans away from the leafy hiding place. The glass felt hot in his hand. Facing the Wall, Bertholdt took a deep breath...and squeezed _hard_.

 

Shards and slivers of glass fell to the grasses below. Bertholdt had never felt better.


	18. Clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His boots tracked blood...

The lightning hurt. Bertholdt was always thankful for it.

 

Something like his Titan, a huge mass of pure energy and steam...it blots out quickly. So quickly, Bertholdt often doesn't remember the first few seconds of transformation. Unlike Annie, Berthold cannot describe his shifting as anything more than void. It's incredibly difficult to breath for what feels like eternity and then...dark. Until the lightning, which he never hears until it's coursing through his Titan. Every muscle sings with energy, heat, and power while the white hot bolt splinters down Bertholdt's spine. It's never comfortable, but it keeps the void away.

 

It was strange to him, peering over that Wall. Thousands of tiny things, tiny tiny things ( _that killed Marcel_ ) stared back. They were scared of him.

 

_Let them be scared of him..._

 

 

\---

 

 

Titans didn't have the time to sink teeth into the quickly burning Colossal carcass. The Wall had been breached, but there was nothing to stop the soldiers from coming. Marcel wasn't here to distract them. A new plan needed to be made.

 

Reiner was standing as Bertholdt bolted into cover. Annie was visibly shaken, eyes glazed over in tears unshed, Reiner appearing not far behind emotionally.

 

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, balking when Bertholdt didn't offer apology. "You're up next," the land owner commanded, crouching over Annie and patting her head softly. "According to the plan. Bust through as many as you can, just get back safe."

 

"But, you--!"

 

"I'm _no_ use in there, Reiner," Bertholdt snapped, rounding on his husband. "I'll have no defense. Annie's not going anywhere and Marcel isn't....here. We have no distraction in place for the soldiers outside of the Titans flooding them. They'll be enough to give you time, just be _quick_!" Bertholdt gave him a sharp shove, tears starting to trek his cheeks. Annie's sobbing turned Bertholdt's attentions. Crouching at her side, he soothed and shushed her. "He's dead," she choked out brokenly, and when Bertholdt glanced over shoulder to give Reiner a look of sympathy, the hunter couldn't be found.

 

Dread began to pool in his stomach, but he kissed her brow and smothered her cries against his breast.

 

 

\---

 

 

His boots tracked blood.

 

Reiner climbed through the brush and pulled them both out with lead-heavy hands, expression utterly lax. "We have to join the refugees to make it inside. They have boats; people are making their way into The Walls, we can try again there."

 

"Again?" Bertholdt echoed, "You didn't make it all the way through?"

 

Reiner's head shook, the apology all over his face. "I didn't have the time. We have to move, though. The boats are leaving fast and there's still plenty of Titans."

 

Guilt and sickness rose in Bertholdt's chest as they struggled through the carnage. They were entering The Walls, the very place that threatened to swallow The Homelands whole. Crows nearly drowned out the sound of crying. It was a sick sense of irony that the nature's birds would eat the corpses once they set to rot, just as the now dead sought to eat up the natural ways of their lands. Marcel had been so eager to see this sight, but now the whole scene made Bertholdt feel like weeping.

 

"This is our fault," he whispered on terrified breath. "R-Reiner, there are children here. _All over_."

 

He glanced around, noting many being lead away in a hurry, some clutching at bloodied possessions or worse, misplaced limbs. Adults openly sobbed and wailed their losses, others screaming as the Titans spread further into their lands. When Bertholdt glanced over shoulder, Annie was stoic unlike he'd ever seen her, glancing about as if she were only taking in the landscape.

 

"R- _R_ - _Reiner_!"

 

Bertholdt shook his hand free of the hunter's, clutching it tight to his own chest. He trembled, tears mapping his face as Reiner turned solemnly to him. This was madness; everything had changed. This wasn't going to take a simple two week walk. Marcel was dead. They'd barely made it and there were plenty more Walls ahead of them. Unable to accept it all, Bertholdt's voice came out barely more than a hiss.

 

" _What were we sent here to **do**_?"

 

Golden eyes could only stare without answer. Reiner took his hand again, forcing his motionless legs to walk through their own massacre, one body short and spirits long broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon (that doesn't perfectly work out, scientifically speaking) that Bertholdt dies when he Shifts. I mean, it's a huge Titan that's well known for extreme amounts of energy and steam, but burns through it quickly and rarely, if at all, walks. 
> 
> How much would it take to power that thing up, even initially? The energy needed to create that much mass, muscle, and bone must be tremendous enough. My headcanon is that his life is easily spent creating the Titan Form up to it's full 60 M. Now the science-y part is compromised because unless The Walls are on some kind of mountain or high ground, clouds would be 2,000 M up in the air at their lowest. But that aside, I imagine his sudden burst of energy as the Titan is formed would disrupt the negative and positive of the clouds and make him, in a nutshell, a huge lightning rod. 
> 
> I imagine it travels down the Titan spine and jolts Bertholdt to life (yes, I know it doesn't work that way, but this is for fun. besides, when does SNK ever follow science to a tee?) powering the big 60 M lug of Titan toughness. 
> 
> Remember those sweet looking almost-burn-like kind of markings Eren got from fighting Female Titan? I believe Bertholdt gets something akin to those from the lightning, in the form of a jagged lightning-y mark down his spine that spiders out into more craggy 'lightning fracturing at a distance' marks over his calves and down to his heels. Not really going to be included in the fic, I don't think, but it's nice imagery.


	19. Stench and Mint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcel had said it best: humanity was rotting here and the stench lingered on their souls...

They took shelter behind what was called Wall Rose, huddled in as vagrant children alongside the other refugees. It was much easier to pretend illiteracy, having adults explain every scrap of news they could find and listening in on conversations for facts.

 

Bertholdt found that they'd busted through an outlying town, Shiganshina, and Reiner's efforts had compromised a whole ring of The Walls. Tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people were at the mercy of Titans, displaced from their homes. It was a twisted justice in Bertholdt's eyes, but the guilt weighed the same. The Homelands were no closer to danger, though. With a literal hole in their defenses, the people of The Walls wouldn't focus on the outside world for a long while. Small comforts were all they could look toward at night, huddled on the streetside when the crowded stables of sheep and the misplaced made their hearts cinch. Food was always hard to come by. Hollows began to form just under Reiner's cheekbones and suddenly Bertholdt knew the hunter was never 'eating his share on the walk over'. With Bertholdt scavenging for safety and news, Annie was quick to shoulder the responsibility, and she was good. Swindling the military was much easier for a blue-eyed girl with forced tears in her eyes. Even on days when the military was short on the ration lines, Annie was no stranger to pickpocketing what they needed. She was never short a loaf, no matter the cost.

 

Days were stretching on without end. They should have been home by now, but the only home they could take refuge in were the nooks and crannies Bertholdt sniffed out. Such a poor excuse for land owning, he thought. Father would be saddened by the disgrace of The Walls. His only son had fallen from commanding vast valleys and morphing plains to his need and specification to scouting out dingy alleys and abandoned hovels. Bertholdt already missed the feeling of ever looming trees. The grasses here felt artificial, the sunlight dimmed through smoke and smog, and the air wasn't fresh no matter where he went. Marcel had said it best: humanity was rotting here and the stench lingered on their souls.

 

The alleyway was questionable at best, but the houses on either side were of warm brick and that would matter more during the damp of night. Bertholdt pressed the back of his hand to the stone, feeling the Sun's warmth radiated back into his skin. It was getting colder as of late. Between their paleness, lethargic nature, and the constant solemn expressions, one would think the three of them were turning to corpses. Every once in a while, though, Bertholdt found these little places of warmth or heard the hunters relax in the depth of sleep. It was enough to keep him going.

 

Turning back, Bertholdt slunk back onto a road, threading his way through the gathered people with his head down. Water bogged newsletters stuck to the age-worn cobble, having been tossed aside by adults during the morning hours when it began to drizzle. Bending to snag the least ruined copy he could see, Bertholdt resisted the urge to read in front of others, instead stuffing it in his pocket and hurrying on.

 

Their current dwelling was little more than an overhang, a poor excuse for a stall that housed a horse long ago. The straw had been molded but the smell of animal lingered. In these conditions, the poor beast was probably slaughtered. Reiner and Annie wouldn't have batted an eyelash to do it themselves. In the small space, Annie sat with a loaf of bread on each knee, breaking off small pieces off her own and softening the stale bits on her tongue. "Hard again?" Bertholdt asked listlessly, holding the newsletter out for her in exchange for his loaf. "Mostly sawdust, I'm afraid," she sighed in reply, taking the offered paper and quickly skimming it. "Marcel would be appalled; he could make better bread out of _sand_ than these people can with their crops."

 

Bertholdt gave a dry chuckle, settling into a corner and picking at his food much the same way Annie did. "Where's Reiner?" he asked softly, already dreading the answer.

 

"Ditching the bags. They started attracting attention." Annie glanced over the newsletter with sympathy. "I, uh...I took out a few things for you. Stuff from home. We can't pack around too much, but couldn't let it all go to waste."

 

Indeed, there was a lump under the straw to her side. Annie reached into it carefully, pulling out a cloth tied shut by its corners: Adelaide's handkerchief. "I recognized her work. There's some more inside." Bertholdt stuffed the bread between his teeth and crawled closer to take it. The slight weight reassured him that she'd indeed kept what he needed most. Thanking her in a sigh, Bertholdt settled back into his corner, stroking the soft fabric in remembrance of home. "I found a new place for the night," he reported, "It's safe enough. Warmer than this, but not by much."

 

"Autumn is here. There won't be much warmth anywhere."

 

Reiner's voice broke through the lull of tension, sniffling determinedly as he joined Bertholdt's side. It was easy to see there was a sick overcoming him, leaving him in chills and pinking his face. A scarf was tied about his throat, the ever familiar weave of Adelaide's work in the woad-faded wool. Annie handed over his rations, passing the newsletter as well. "There's going to be less food from here on out," Reiner stated before even setting eyes on the type. "This, this is just their governmental excuses. These people didn't have the plenty we'd assumed: they were branching out in hopelessness. They've ruined this land, there's hardly the space to crop. They're like a bad case of ticks: breeding and breeding and breeding before they suck every bit of blood they can and dying off as a whole afterward. Except these ones don't brave the cold to find more. They just sit here." Reiner grew more disgusted with each word he said, each bite he took. "They're sitting here, scared and starving, while there's plenty out there. They have the manpower to hunt, but no brains. They just steal away villages in the night for the land and never stick around to take the spoils. It's death for people like us."

 

"I've never seen so many in one place before," Annie added softly, breaking Reiner from his ranting. 

 

"I can't stand it," he replied. The newsletter was tossed aside and forgotten as Reiner went about his business. Bertholdt had a gut feeling they'd end up the same.

 

 

\---

 

 

With the morning's rain, there was no hope of finding dry material for a fire. The bricks still held warmth, however, and Bertholdt settled between the hunters while the night was youthful. It was inevitable the tiny comfort they had would fade fast and they each wanted to be asleep before the time came, but Bertholdt had plans. Taking his mothers kerchief from his cloak pocket, he untied the knot Annie had made and let his prize spill free before their waiting eyes. There in his lap, among all the loss and hopelessness, sat three tokens from The Homelands: Adelaide's sweets. Reiner's normally tired eyes lit immediately. Bertholdt was sure he remembered the day Adelaide invited him over to make them.

 

It had been one of Bertholdt's favorite birthdays ever, teaching the heavy handed hunter to arrange tiny bird eggs prepared weeks in advance. Adelaide was always so precise in her pouring, managing to never waste a drop while the sweet mix was funneled into the shells. Reiner and Bertholdt, however, had ended up flooding and breaking more than a dozen, laughing and shouting and kissing cheeks and hands when Adelaide had her back turned. For all his memory, Bertholdt had stashed a number, and the last had been packed away in his bag for an occasion such as this. 

 

The tiny egg-shaped sweets were greenish with mint, speckled and soft. Annie took hers slowly, as if it would disappear, and Reiner followed suit. "Happy Birthday, Reiner," Bertholdt congratulated softly, lifting his own to his lips. Unmentioned, they ate the treats simultaneously. Home in mind, Reiner leaned against Bertholdt's shoulder, hand kept lovingly in his as Annie rested her head in Bertholdt's lap. Stars stole to the skies with a breeze of chill, but the trio were long asleep and drifting in thoughts of open fields, endless woods, family, friends, and loves lost along the way.


	20. Mutterseelenallein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He made mistakes, but he wasn't cruel. He never expected my agreement. He earned it..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mutterseelenallein   
>  German  
>  \-- Utterly alone, as a refugee in a new land.

Influenza swept the refugee population in less than a week.

 

 

The virus crippled Reiner, leaving him a quivering mess, aching and sleeping at odd hours. Annie and Bertholdt sacrificed their cloaks to keep the hunter warm, but it made little difference as the winds grew colder. Two days were wasted in vain: Bertholdt, feeding and comforting his husband-to-be while Annie searched high and low for late Lungwort and Valerian. The land owner grew envious of Annie and her sucess with the midwives. It was all he could do to break rations with Reiner and tell him tales, brush fingers through his hair and soothe him through hacking fits. Annie knew just what herbs to look for, common places to find them, and exactly what they'd do. Over time, Bertholdt came to realize she wouldn't have anyone to break rations with anymore, to tell tales and soothe through sicknesses. Bertholdt wasn't so envious afterward.

 

 

Three days into the outbreak, Annie returned late at night with a stringy bundle of root and three withered leaves. "The lungwort," she sighed, nudging the leaves in her palm, "was in the shade of the wall. I left the plant; we could use it later." Bertholdt nodded, watching as Annie took water from their salvaged pitcher and brewed over a pitiful flame they considered warmth. "And the roots?" Bertholdt asked in curiosity. Annie glanced down at the bundle before speaking. "Valerian. All-Heal, the midwives call it. It'll...help. Keep him asleep, take away some pains, keep the thoughts from his mind. Those kinds of things."

 

 

"Thoughts?" Bertholdt asked again, unsure and slightly frightened.

 

She paused in brewing the tea, blue eyes staring beyond the depths of the pitcher. "Don't try to tell me you've not had them."

 

The night air blew chilled between them, bringing sounds of distant coughing. Bertholdt did not have the heart to deny Annie. Instead, he bowed over Reiner to block the worst of the winds from the hunter's face, made slack with exhaustion and illness. He appeared weather beaten even in sleep, each new guilt and worry etched between his brows. "Annie," Bertholdt began, "about Marcel..."

 

"Don't."

 

"The Annie I knew would have talked about it," he pressed, "She would've taken me aside, as always, and spoke her voice to _harshness_ , if only I could listen to ease her." There was a quaver to Bertholdt's tone, confessing his near teary state even though the mask of shadow veiled it. "You don't have to shoulder it anymore, it's done now--." The pitcher clattered against the cobblestones, lukewarm tea spattering on the street. "It's not _done_ ," she bit venomously, "Reiner is alive because of Marcel. You have your husband back because _I lost mine_." Her breath shook as she fought to inhale past her anger, and Bertholdt began to shrink from the disquieting emotion. "You have _no_ idea -- none! That thing ate him and we _ran_ , Bertholdt..."

 

"We thought we knew what to do, Annie..."

 

Reiner spoke from Bertholdt's lap, eyes unopened. "Father told us -- me and Marcel -- everything we needed to do to survive this...to keep you two safe...to live through this. We could have never been prepared. All of us expected Titans." The declaration wasn't enough to mute Annie's anger, however. She stood suddenly, ready to speak, but Reiner beat her to it. "I didn't call out for Marcel. I didn't even have the time to form a proper cry for _help_ , but Marcel was there and I couldn't stop him from grabbing me. My friend died to save me, Annie; do you not think I feel the same pain?" Reiner's eyes cracked open as Annie's fell shut in avoidance. "Do you not think we grew together? That we planned futures together?"

 

"We were arranged," Annie choked, "I didn't have much choice, but he...we had _each other_. He made mistakes, but he wasn't cruel. He never expected my agreement. He _earned_ it."

 

"He was a good man," Reiner agreed solemnly, "His life wasn't worth theirs."

 

The pause after Reiner's words was enough. Coughing, faint crying, sniffling and wailing caught up in the breezes drifted their way, reminding the trio of the job they left unfinished. They'd killed people, upset the way of life within The Walls in fear for their own. Children were going without parents. Adults had lost everything they worked for. The death toll was only climbing here, assuring the safety of The Homelands and every other village and hamlet like it. 

 

"He wasn't a man," Annie sighed, catching Bertholdt's attention once more as she sat upon the cobble. The pitcher was righted and set back over the flame. "He died too young. We're barely older children."

 

In her hands, the stringy root was plucked and prepared while Reiner groaned. The pacification of Annie's held rage seemed to wear him enough for another long sleep, but a sharp smelling piece of Valerian was placed in his palm. At Reiner's grimace, Bertholdt took the medicine, snapping the limber root to three. A piece to Reiner's unwilling mouth, another to his own tongue, and Bertholdt beckoned Annie close. Tea momentarily forgotten, Annie neared. Her fingerprints were ingrained with dirt when she took it from him. Reiner's hand met her cheek; an unspoken apology that Bertholdt mirrored. She leaned into the touch for the moment, but long after Reiner's fell to his herb-induced rest and Bertholdt's lids began to grow heavy, the root never touched her lips. Instead, she sat watch over the pitcher, stirring the contents softly....staring at the night sky.

 


End file.
